


Enterprise Betrayed

by SteveWilson



Series: The Enterprise Trilogy [3]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Awesome Nyota Uhura, Gen, Leonard "Bones" McCoy is a Good Friend, Saavik deserved better, Saavik had Spock's Baby, Star Trek III: The Search for Spock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 102,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24443767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteveWilson/pseuds/SteveWilson
Summary: At the end of ENTERPRISE LOST, time was repaired, but Metcalfe was determined not to forget Saavik. Life has gone on, years have passed, and they've lived separate lives. The events of STAR TREK: GENERATIONS are about to change all that.
Relationships: David Marcus/Saavik, James T. Kirk/Carol Marcus, Saavik/Original Male Character
Series: The Enterprise Trilogy [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657816
Comments: 7
Kudos: 5





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> After I finished Entperprise Lost, twelve years passed before I came to a place in life that I was ready to finish the story I'd begun as a 16-year old. A lot had happened in my life, and a lot had happened in the world of Trek. Three new Trek series had aired, the original crew had, literally, signed off with Star Trek VI, and James T. Kirk had died in Star Trek: Generations. It might seem a strange time to continue my Classic Trek fan fic, but it seemed appropriate to me. It was time to write my ending to their story. And it was a way to recharge my creative batteries after years of hard work had resulted in only a handful of professional publication credits. DC Comics had lost the Trek license just as I was being considered as a regular series writer. I was frustrated and burned out. So it seemed appropriate to visit my old friends in fan fic one last time. Little did I know I would be simultaneously starting a decades-long adventure with my own characters. More thoughts to follow after you've read Enterprise Betrayed! BTW, this is the last piece of Trek fiction to be edited by the late Beverly J. Volker of CONTACT fame.

Shards of glass rained down to the slick street below, some of them so small that they mixed in and became indistinguishable from the droplets of real, water-rain falling around them. Metcalfe relaxed the curve of his spine, let his muscles go slack, and made a three-point landing. Dumb luck saved him from having a sliver of glass in his palm. He had long held the opinion that all luck was dumb, and so were those who depended on luck.

He'd gotten sloppy.

He'd never had to use such a theatric stunt before. Crashing through plate-glass windows—really! What would his instructors have said? Of course, they'd taught him how to do it and live. There weren't many opportunities to do it in the Federation anymore, either. On most worlds, windows were made of transparent aluminum. Much safer. Even the antiquated Cathedrals in earth's European Union had intricately stained transparent aluminum in their casements. Glass was too old a technology even for antiques.

But this was Den. Den was on the border. Den was old-fashioned. Den was dirty. Den was poor. The windows were glass, the streets were paved with a paste dug from the swamps, and the life expectancies were short. Dysentery, Bubonic Plague, cancer—Den knew them all, and all were most often fatal. It was a world of few luxuries, the benefits of Federation membership still eluding it, as it had failed to clean up its streets. It was well-known as a center of crime, of the Orion slave trade in particular.

The presence of a Federation envoy on the planet had changed little. Indeed, it had appeared things were getting worse. That was why Metcalfe was here, now, rising from his crouch and listening closely for footsteps sounding in the alley where he'd landed.

There were none. Not yet, anyway. He knew they'd be here soon. He also knew that Abdashi had friends on every street corner. If he was seen being pursued, someone would detain him so that his would-be assailants could catch up. Den was that kind of world. For the moment, his best option was simply to be out of sight. To his right, rain hammered against something metallic and hollow. He looked and saw the recycling cabinet. It was decades old, battery driven, using a crude bastardization of transporter technology to reduce discarded items to basic elements for later use. An advantage of its age was that it was big enough to hold an average-sized humanoid. Later ones had been reduced in capacity, barring the obvious misuse such a setup allowed—the very misuse he now intended.

The control panel was corroded, but a few sharp jabs of the heel of his hand loosened it enough to be pried open. The circuitry inside was familiar enough. Within seconds, he had disabled the transporter unit and hard-wired the "ready" indicator light to remain glowing. He popped the hatch, took a deep breath of fresh air (imperative, for the small cabinet stank) and slipped inside.

Metcalfe wasn't fond of enclosed spaces, especially dark, smelly ones; but this one offered him the opportunity to hide for a few hours, until the streets offered a relative measure of safety.

Not for the first time in recent months, he reflected on the long, unlikely path he'd followed to this unwelcome corner of space. The turning point had come nine years earlier, when he had returned home from his first deep space assignment...

"You appear to be experiencing displeasure," Sernak observed as Metcalfe stepped out of the terminal booth.

" _Excelsior_ ," Metcalfe said, as though it were a curse.

"An excellent ship," countered Sernak, picking up the emotional undercurrent of his friend's utterance. He'd become adept, in his year with non-Vulcans aboard the border scout _Phoenix_ , at identifying their moods and feelings. He could, as it were, "read between the lines" better than most members of his race.

"A ship is only as good as its captain," said Metcalfe bitterly.

"Perhaps you are being unnecessarily pessimistic. You do not know yet who the new Captain of _Excelsior_ will be."

"But I know who it won't be. It won't be Sulu. It won't be Kirk. From there, it's all downhill. I won't even get to work with any of you."

His former shipmates glanced at each other, each sharing a wistful look of unhappiness. Aer'La, the Orion Security Chief, said "Looks like we're pretty well split up, yes. Doc Faulkner will still be on _Phoenix_ with me, but..." She surveyed the assembled group of young officers—just cadets, twelve short months ago. "I'll miss having someone my own age aboard."

"And I am grateful for what each of you has taught me in our time together," observed Sernak. "My new assignment places me aboard the _Faragut_ , in engineering."

Kevin Carson, who had entered the terminal booth after Metcalfe to pick up his new assignment, returned. "Bad news, Metcalfe. I'm going with you... again. Seems I spend my life following you around."

"What a comforting thought," Metcalfe snapped. He tried to smile as he said it, but the smile wouldn't come. He couldn't force himself to feel good about today's events, not when he contrasted them to what might have been. His original orders had assigned him to _Enterprise_. There had even been rumors—just rumors, but still exciting—that Kirk might step down from the Admiralty and take command of his old ship once again. Even if he didn't, Metcalfe still would have been part of _Enterprise's_ crew, where his present commander, Hikaru Sulu, had begun his career.

But Khan had changed everything. Spock had given his life to save _Enterprise_ and her crew of trainees from this year's academy class. In a move no one really understood, James Kirk had then stolen the _Enterprise_ from Spacedock, destroyed her in the Mutara sector, and fled to Vulcan. There he and his officers remained, protected, for the time being, from Starfleet's wrath. They couldn't hide forever, though. Despite the wild rumors now circulating that Spock was miraculously alive again, the future was easy to predict. Kirk would never command a ship again, and _Enterprise_ was gone forever. Metcalfe's dreams were gone with it. Now, he would serve a mediocre captain on a ship that should have been Sulu's first Starship command. How and why Starfleet had pulled her out from under Sulu, no one knew. They just had. That fact was enough to make Metcalfe bitter. There could have been no good reason for such an insult.

"Where's Kaya?" Aer'La asked. "Isn't she picking up her orders?"

Metcalfe shook his head, wishing Aer'La had not broached this particular subject. Kayan'na Atal had been his first love. They'd met at the Academy five years ago. Their love affair had lasted a year. Kaya had ended it. Since then, he'd lived in hope and been grateful for her presence in his life.

"She's not being reassigned," he said. "She's going in for re-training in Intelligence."

Sernak raised an eyebrow. "There is a considerable waiting list for such programs."

"Her father has contacts," Metcalfe explained. "She's already left."

Aer'La placed her hands on his shoulders. He blushed. Had an attractive human grabbed him and kissed him on the mouth, he would have been less stimulated. There were some natural Orion gifts that officer's insignia couldn't obscure.

"You're not having a good day, are you?" she asked.

"I'll live," he muttered.

She frowned. "We have a few hours before the final inspection. Why don't we—"

Just what proposition she was going to make, none of them ever found out. The station's red alert klaxon blared out, ending all conversation on the concourse. Security personnel scurried by, panicked civilians milled about, colliding with each other, with officers, and with bulkheads.

"What the hell—?" demanded Metcalfe.

"Quiet!" Aer'La suddenly shouted. Metcalfe looked sharply, then realized her outburst was not directed at him. She was using her "crowd control voice," something security officers were required to have. There'd been little occasion to use it aboard _Phoenix_ , with her crew of twenty-seven. Her reason for silencing the small but noisy throng became clear: the vidscreens overhead were coming to life. Admiral Cartwright appeared, anxiety written on his face. Even before he began speaking, everyone knew something was very wrong...

To those who lived through it, it came as a surprise that the so-called "Probe Crisis" lasted only a matter of hours. What looked very much like the impending destruction of the earth at the figurative hands of a probe from the outer reaches of the galaxy just suddenly took a turn for the better. It took even those at Starfleet Operations hours to determine just why the skies had cleared and the rains stopped. For the rest of the population of the planet, it took days to find out even why it had all happened to begin with, much less who had ended it and how.

So Terry Metcalfe was at his post aboard _Excelsior_ (one of three regular helm officers—not chief, as he would have been on _Enterprise_ ) when the trial of James T. Kirk and his officers was held. By this time he'd met his Captain, George Fournier, and begun to form an opinion of him. Against Kirk, Spock, or Sulu, many an average Captain could be found wanting. Fournier compounded the matter by being a superficial politician, who made it clear that those with no power to do favors for him were not worthy of his notice.

Metcalfe disliked him within five minutes of meeting him. This reaction disturbed Metcalfe immensely. He knew himself well. In school and at the academy, he'd performed well for teachers he'd liked. If he didn't like a teacher, he didn't do well in a class. Never mind the fact that, despite a poor teacher, there was still material to be learned, benefits to be derived. Metcalfe knew his reactions were driven largely by the attitudes of those around him. He didn't see changing that personality quirk as a possibility, so he didn't try.

It seemed to follow that he wouldn't have a promising career on a ship where he disliked the Captain. And Fournier seemed to go out of his way to be dislikeable.

The _Excelsior_ bridge crew was watching intently as Kirk's trial proceeded. Kevin Carson, at communications, had tied into the Starfleet NewsNet feed and put it on the main screen. He rightly assumed his fellow officers would be interested in watching. No matter what they thought of Kirk personally—and his reputation was taking a nosedive since he stole a starship—they couldn't deny the fact that he'd just driven away an alien device which had almost destroyed their home planet's human population. It wasn't a very eventful shift, at any rate. Metcalfe, at the con, certainly didn't object to the broadcast.

"Mr. Metcalfe, I don't recall authorizing the crew to watch news broadcasts on-duty," Fournier said even as the lift doors opened to admit him.

"No, sir, you didn't. I—"

Carson swung around in his seat, "It was my idea, sir," he said quickly.

"I was not addressing you, Carson," said Fournier. "Metcalfe has the con. What happens here is his responsibility." He looked back to Metcalfe. "As I said, newscasts are to be viewed during off-duty hours. I'm surprised you aren't aware of that fact."

"I am, sir," said Metcalfe evenly. "I just thought—"

"Then why," interrupted Fournier, "is that distracting broadcast on the main viewer?"

"It's Admiral Kirk's trial, Captain."

"So? Criminals are tried frequently, Lieutenant—far too frequently for us to breach military discipline each time it happens."

"Criminals, sir?" Metcalfe felt his face flush with anger. Not for the first time, he wished he had taken the time to study Vulcan bio-control from Sernak. He despised the automatic reaction that let others so easily read his anger.

Fournier leaned in, allowing Metcalfe to smell what he'd eaten for lunch. "Criminals, Mister Metcalfe. Isn't that what you'd call someone who stole and destroyed a Federation Starship? And very nearly got us into a war with the Klingons? Well?"

"Not in this case, sir."

Fournier sniffed, then said to the now-watching crew. "I'm well aware that Admiral Kirk's exploits are lionized at the Academy. I'm equally well aware that many of you have been turned out with a severe case of hero worship as regards Kirk and his people. Well, on this ship, we follow orders, not bad examples. This," he pointed to the screen, "is what comes of putting your own judgement ahead of that of your superiors."

"You mean it sometimes results in the salvation of all human life on earth, sir?" asked Metcalfe.

Fournier spun, a gentle menace lilting in his voice. "Careful, mister! Admiral Kirk came up through the ranks in a very different Starfleet. The day of the loose cannon is past. If you don't have discipline, you won't last very long on my ship. Got it?"

He placed his nose centimeters from Metcalfe's. Metcalfe could feel the gazes of his fellow officers, particularly Carson's. They no doubt wondered if he would take Fournier's bait and wind up on report. Very quietly, Metcalfe answered, "Got it. Sir. Mr. Carson, shut off that newsfeed."

Fournier smiled. It wasn't a pretty sight.

"You heard me! The word is 'disloyal.'"

Kevin Carson rolled his eyes and went back to dissecting his steak, carefully, with a knife and fork.

"And don't roll your eyes at me," Metcalfe added.

Carson chewed for a few moments, looked thoughtful. Then he said, "Metcalfe, you're so quaintly old-fashioned it would be amusing—if I didn't have to live with you."

"You don't live with me... anymore."

"True," he agreed. "And I must admit it's damnably refreshing to have a clean cabin for the first time in twelve months. You're a slob, Metcalfe: a hopelessly old-fashioned slob."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning times are changing, and you don't recognize it. The Federation isn't one big frontier-town anymore. We're only a decade and a half from the twenty-fourth century. Get up to date."

"By 'get up to date' you mean start bashing Kirk and any others of his generation we grew up respecting?"

"I didn't say bashing."

"Fournier was bashing."

"That's his privilege. He's the Captain."

"And Kirk's an admiral!"

"Not anymore. Didn't you hear?" Carson mimed grabbing at his epaulet and ripping it off. "Busted!"

"I heard," said Metcalfe darkly. "Although, in his case, it was hardly a thing to be ashamed of."

"He doesn't think so. You don't think so. The rest of the Federation may disappoint you. People are tired of Kirk and his grandstanding, 'I'm-always-right-so-my-superiors-better-not-get-in-my-way-or-else' antics."

Metcalfe was angry now. "He stole that ship to save his officers!"

"And it worked out... sort of. His son and a whole passel of Klingons are dead, the planet's destroyed, and the ship with it."

"He did the right thing. Anyway, Fournier had no business questioning a flag officer in front of the crew. I'll bet he wouldn't want the admiralty to know—"

"The admiralty wouldn't give a damn!" Carson shot, rather loudly. The others in the mess hall were staring at them now. Carson sighed, then went on quietly. "Terry, Kirk may be your idea of a hero, but he's a pain in the ass to Starfleet. You may not like Fournier, but he's got enough decorations to tip a Christmas Tree; and he's the Admiralty's golden child. He'll probably be Commander, Starfleet before he's fifty."

Metcalfe cursed in Orion. "He's a politician."

"Without question."

"He has no substance!"

"You're being redundant. Politicians never have any substance."

Metcalfe shook his head, knowing he couldn't make any impression on Carson, who'd known all the answers the day he was born—and they were all bad news. "Well, if Fournier is Starfleet's idea of excellence," he said, "maybe I don't belong in Starfleet."

Behind them, someone's throat cleared loudly. Metcalfe didn't have to turn to identify the owner of the throat. He didn't even have to recognize the voice, although he did. His bad luck would not let the person standing behind him—who had, no doubt, overheard the entire conversation—be anyone but Captain George Fournier.

"Well, Mr. Metcalfe," Fournier said. "I'm sorry that you feel that way. If you persist in publicly airing such opinions about your commanding officer, however, I'll be forced to agree with you. Starfleet discipline may be beyond your capabilities."

Metcalfe didn't respond. No response would have improved the situation. Many would have made matters worse.

"Whatever you think of your superiors, Mr. Metcalfe, your opinions are best kept to yourself. It is not fitting for an officer to undermine the respect commanded by another officer. Agreed?"

"Aye, sir."

"The service demands loyalty to those in command," Fournier continued, "whether you agree with their decisions or not." He quieted his tone and assumed a visage of benevolence. "In the interest of fostering a good working relationship from the start, you're not on report... this time. Don't let it happen again."

"No, sir."

Fournier nodded to Carson and left. Metcalfe, his eyes and face burning in anger, stared at the tabletop. "If you so much as snicker," he said without looking at his friend, "I'll rip your testicles off."

Carson didn't say a word. In fact, Metcalfe thought, he looked almost sympathetic for a change. Perhaps he hadn't missed either the fact that every word Fournier had just spouted could easily have been applied to the Captain himself.

A loud, pounding noise made Metcalfe start, and he realized he'd been on the verge of dozing off. Someone was outside in the alley, trying to open the hatch of the recycling unit. They'd found him. It had only been a matter of time, after all. They could hardly go back to Abdashi and tell him the Fed had gotten away, could they? The Planetary representative to the Federation would simply have burned them down where they stood, then found some other hired guns to come after Metcalfe—on Earth, if necessary. He wondered if Abdashi would even go so far as destroying any transport vessel Metcalfe might take.

To keep Starfleet Intelligence from knowing that a Fed Rep was dealing in the Orion slave trade? He most definitely would.

"It's jammed!" said a voice from without. It spoke in Orion.

The other answered back, also in Orion. Wasn't Abdashi's choice of hirelings a little obvious? Anywhere else, yes; but this was Den.

"He's in there," said the other. "Burn it open!"

Metcalfe reached up and, Hobson's choice, punched open the hatch. The phaser he had already discharged in the running battle inside the building was useless to him. He pitched it out ahead of him. It clattered against the wet pavement without.

"If you burn me," he called out reasonably, "you won't get the microcartridge back, will you?" Abdashi had been stupid. He'd stored the ID files of captured youngsters from surrounding planets on a microcartridge. If he was going to sell Federation citizens on the Orion slave market, why keep records? Presumably, he thought he could use the information later to create fake identities for his operatives. Certainly the poor children, their minds wiped clean with illegal technology, would never need the records again. They'd likely never be found, and life expectancies for Orion slaves were notoriously short.

The smarter of the two goons pursuing him—hardly a superlative—answered him. "Come on out, then. Maybe we'll kill you quick."

He took hold of the rim of the opening, fighting muscles stiff from disuse and unaccustomed damp. He flipped himself out easily, though, and presented himself with a disarming smile.

When he reached into his jacket, one of the two levelled his phaser at him. "Don't move!"

Metcalfe dropped his arm, shrugging. "I was just gonna return your boss's property. No hard feelings, huh? You caught me, and I'm returning the goods. I don't see what you're making such a fuss about. A few rich kids kidnapped off Federation planets. Those fat, happy idiots can have more kids, can't they? The Feds have better things to worry about, and I couldn't have gotten much for a lousy bunch of ID files."

"Black market'll pay plenty for those files," said the second man. "And the Orions don't like their contacts exposed to—"

"Shut up!" hissed the first. He was taller, with several rotten teeth and the faintly chartreuse coloring of a Rigellian/Orion mix. He spat out a laugh. "We'll get the goods—off your dead body."

Metcalfe nodded and smiled again, which seemed to really annoy both men. Then he said pleasantly, addressing the air over his head, "Did you get all that, Harry?"

The second man snickered harshly. This was the oldest trick in the book, after all. Both looked suspicious, though, when a voice from Metcalfe's coat pocket responded, "Recorded. Sorry about this—"

"Just give my family their money," Metcalfe said pointedly.

"Done," responded the voice.

Metcalfe spread his hands beatifically. "All right, boys, let's get this over with, shall we? I'm not afraid. I have Rigellian plague already. This'll hurt less."

The Origellian guffawed. "Not the way we do it. We're gonna have some fun. But first, I want that communicator. Take it our and throw it here—real slow. Then take off your clothes."

"Come on, don't do this," said Metcalfe. "Give me a little dignity, okay?"

The other man leered. "We're gonna give you something. Gimme the damned communicator!"

Metcalfe grimaced, then reached slowly into his jacket pocket, from which the voice had emanated. He'd thrown them off-balance, made them wonder who on the other end knew their boss's dirty secret. That bit of confusion was all he needed, that and an excuse to reach into his pocket.

By the time they'd realized the gleaming, metal object he'd extracted was a second phaser, and not a communicator, he'd fired two blasts. His two assailants' cruel laughter was instantly replaced by shrieks of pain. The falling rain sizzled where it impacted burning flesh. The steam dissipated quickly as the temperature of their burns fell. Their screams were not so momentary. They were still howling as Metcalfe claimed their phasers, prying the fingers of their dismembered arms open to do so.

Through his pain, the Origellian found the wherewithal to advance on his tormentor. Metcalfe calmly levelled the phaser at him.

"If you want to live to see the inside of the bionics lab, don't."

The other man halted, gritting his teeth against the pain.

"I really should kill you," Metcalfe continued, "but that would be too damned merciful." His thumb clicked the phaser's intensity dial back two clicks and he fired again, catching them both in a heavy stun beam. They hit the ground at his feet. They'd be out at least two hours. It was enough.

A week later, having slipped off Den on an immigrant ship, Metcalfe was quartered in the transient officer's barracks on Benecia. He was glad that a Commander in Starfleet Intelligence rated a private room. After having mixed for six weeks with the living refuse of his own race on Den, he craved solitude. Not that he had minded being amongst the desperate residents of Den's streets—the addicts, the prostitutes, the pushers. If one knew what to expect, they posed little threat. Many were excellent company.

Abdashi, on the other hand, Den's ambassador of Federation goodwill, was a dangerous animal. He didn't want another dose of drugs, or money to eat tomorrow. He was addicted to power and was capable of any cruel or immoral act in the name of expanding his base. Metcalfe was looking forward to seeing him brought down.

He stepped out of the sonic shower, reflecting with annoyance the lack of a water shower or bath, and ran his hand through his just-regenerated hair. He'd shaved it off in a public restroom at Den's space terminal—part of a disguise which had fooled Abdashi's men. The stimulants applied brought back only a centimeter's growth, but he was glad not to feel drafts on his scalp anymore. The rest would grow in quickly.

His comm unit message light was flashing. He sprawled on the bed and checked the source, discovering it was listed as unknown. That meant a secure transmission—from Morrow. He placed a secure call back to his commanding officer on earth. Not feeling particularly energetic, he keyed the transmitter to simulate an image of himself—clothed—for Morrow's benefit.

Within minutes, Admiral Harry Morrow's face appeared on the viewer beside him. The head of Starfleet Intelligence smiled. "Hello, Terry. The courier brought us your mission summary and all the evidence yesterday. Excellent work."

"Thank you, sir. I have some thoughts about this situation with Abdashi—"

Morrow nodded perfunctorily. "I'm sure you do. We can discuss it when you get back."

A sinking feeling came over him. "'Get back?' Admiral, I wanted—" He sighed, and tried to bring an easiness he didn't really feel to his voice. "If it's all the same to you, sir, I'll just wait here until we're ready to send the team in."

Morrow shook his head, a sad smile coming to his face. "I'm sorry, Commander. There isn't going to be any team."

"Admiral, you can't just recall Abdashi! He'll bolt. You've got to let me lead a team in to bring him out. It wouldn't be safe to let them go in without someone who knows the—"

"You're not following me, Terry. Abdashi's staying where he is."

Metcalfe experienced a moment of sheer disbelief while Morrow's words settled in, then he had to stop himself from driving a fist into the monitor. "Sir... you read my report. He's dealing on the Orion slave market."

"Your report was quite clear, yes. The evidence is indisputable."

"Then I don't understand—"

Morrow looked pained. For the first time, Metcalfe thought, he really looked his full eighty-three standard years. The job was weighing on him. "Abdashi isn't what I'd call a model governor, but he is a strong Federation presence on Den. No one else knows the local mob operations like he does—"

"Because he's part of them!"

"—And any replacement would either get himself and all his people killed or start a war between rival cartels. We can't afford that now, not with so many of our resources tied up in the Klingon relief effort. The Federation council is demanding a scaling down of our military activities. We're going to have to leave local crime to local law enforcement. We can't afford to expend the agents we'd need for damage control when Abdashi was pulled out, or to assist in breaking in a successor. He's got to stay for the time being."

Metcalfe composed himself, holding his voice steady. "Sir, this shouldn't make a difference, but we both know it does. Have you pointed out to the Council that this isn't just a question of Abdashi selling off the Animal Women? Do they realize the numbers of adolescents his people are pulling off the neighboring worlds? He's enslaving Federation citizens! Ripping their memories away!"

Morrow looked sympathetic. "I know, Terry. I've got a team working now to develop a counter measure to the pirated Van Gelder technology his people are using. We hope we can give the kids that are at risk some kind of immunity—"

"That's not the point, dammit!" Metcalfe barked. This time he did pound the monitor casing with his fist. "This man is enslaving sentient beings—violating the most basic precepts of Federation law! How can we let him get away with it, and keep supporting his activities?"

Morrow's eyes went hard. "The decision has been made."

"The council knows all this, and—"

"The council knows nothing," said Morrow. "You know I have to keep some information classified, for expedience's sake. Passing this on would create a political uproar that might turn up other skeletons in other closets, and the domino effect could damage the Federation's credibility irreparably." He sighed, and again looked very tired. "We're on tenuous ground, Terry. We can't take chances."

"You're telling me that Starfleet and the Federation are so rife with corruption we don't dare throw stones at glass houses?"

His voice devoid of all emotion, Morrow said, "I'm telling you my decision and my orders. As a Starfleet officer, I expect you to carry them out. Come home now. Your next assignment will be waiting when you get here. I've arranged some well-deserved rest for you before it begins. Any questions?"

"Will my thirty pieces of silver be waiting when I get there as well?" Metcalfe couldn't help himself. He knew he was flirting with an insubordination charge.

But Morrow's temper held. He shrugged helplessly and then said, not without compassion. "You'll feel better after you've had some rest. Morrow out."

The monitor went dark. Metcalfe threw his bare arm over his eyes and lay on the bed, cognizant only of the rage seething through him. Some undetermined time later, he decided he should put some clothes on. His uniform lay draped on a chair, where he'd laid it out before his shower. He frowned at it, then went to the fabricator panel on the wall and punched for a civilian outfit.

The uniform just didn't look very comfortable right now.

Four days later, Metcalfe was home in San Francisco, a city he was not overly attached to. His apartment was near Starfleet Command, however, and so sufficed. He wasn't home enough to worry about disliking the neighborhood, anyway.

As always, his message center was overloaded with incoming calls. One of the latest, he knew, would contain an attached file of orders for his next assignment, secure-coded, to be decrypted by hand. He had already decided to let that laborious task wait a day or more. Morrow had promised him time off, so it wasn't pressing that he know where he was going after his vacation. Further, he had decided that it would be his last assignment. His contract with Morrow called for resignation in advance of a final assignment, so he had to take this next one. After that... he wasn't sure what he was going to do. It wasn't going to involve Starfleet, though.

While Metcalfe was one to threaten resignation often, he was not one to actually resign over a single aggravation. Morrow's intention to leave Abdashi in power and exploiting innocents was merely the latest in a series of disillusioning events which had soured Metcalfe on Starfleet. The first, of course, had been the loss of Kaya.

She'd been there throughout his career. They'd met his first day at the academy. He'd fallen quickly in love with her. Through four years together in their academy class, then through a year on _Phoenix_ , he'd pursued her. The pursuit had become a running gag toward the end. By the time they were separated, when he went to _Excelsior_ and she back to school, he'd suffered no dramatic pangs of hunger for his lost love. He'd missed the friend she'd become, but he'd coped.

He'd hated _Excelsior_. When Kaya had written and suggested that her father recommend Metcalfe for service in Intelligence, he'd jumped at the chance. For a time, they'd been regular partners on assignments. Then, neither of them involved with anyone else, with their jobs leaving little time for outside entanglements, he'd convinced her to marry him.

It was only a five-year contract, of course: a friendly agreement to share living space and sex and emotional support. He'd often wondered how he'd feel when the contract ran out. Would they go their separate ways? Would he want to?

The marriage lasted only two years. It ended, not in legal dissolution, but in death.

They'd never recovered her body, but she'd been aboard a commercial freighter when it had exploded. There were no survivors. Starfleet had declared her dead and sent him a posthumous commendation for her sacrifice in the line of duty.

Had she lived, there would still have been a year to go on that contract.

Until Kaya's death, he'd never realized how much a part of his Starfleet career she was, even when she wasn't with him. Since their Academy days, each had spurred the other on. Their rivalry was behind a great number of both of their successes as officers. Without her, Starfleet wasn't... fun. And he could hardly say his work was making a difference, not when the injustices he uncovered were swept under the rug in the name of politics.

Politics... like those practiced so artfully by George Fournier, now Commodore and chief of Starship operations. The promotion, six months old, still made Metcalfe cringe. The man was a consummate bullshit artist, a vindictive, unimaginative parasite. And the news media called him "The New James T. Kirk." Not that anyone thought Fournier was anything like Kirk. No, Fournier was an improvement over Kirk: a commander who knew how to follow orders, who saw the "big picture," rather than putting his own narrow vision ahead of Starfleet's.

And Fournier had never broken the Prime Directive. That was the media's and his supporters favorite rant. Kirk broke the Prime Directive on each and every mission, they said. It wasn't true, of course. Kirk had broken the Prime Directive—always with good reason, always with Starfleet's blessing—a handful of times. But the generation coming of age as Kirk retired knew nothing of the man. They knew only the legend, the larger-than-life hero. They knew each and every mistake he made, each drink he took at a public function, each woman he dated. They crucified him for each gaffe, each tiny mistake, each imagined offense. Why? Because he was James T. Kirk. It was human nature to feel insecure when constantly reminded of another's greatness. It was also human nature to subsequently begin decrying that greatness in another. After all, if you were good enough to say that James T. Kirk was wanting, did that not make you even greater than he in the eyes of those who admired Kirk?

Not in Metcalfe's eyes. Not Fournier.

Fournier was fond of repeating the contents of that lecture he'd given Metcalfe in the officers' mess so long ago. "The time for rashness, for adventurers and explorers, is past" he often said. "Now is the time for wisdom, for the planners and architects of a new order."

If those who would live under the new order were as pompous and arrogant as Fournier, Metcalfe understood the desire of Kirk and other explorers to go into the unknown: it was as far from the Fourniers of the universe as one could get. The wise planners and architects of great societies rarely had the stomach to venture into the sloppy, uncivilized unknown.

With Starfleet downsizing, there were few opportunities to work on that kind of assignment anymore. Metcalfe's future in Starfleet would be increasingly tied to the political situation in the Federation. When he was on earth, it would mean close proximity and frequent exposure to Fournier, who was very visible at the headquarters of Starfleet Command. It was said that Fournier was already flaunting his influence with members of the Admiralty—including Harry Morrow, the notoriously incorruptible head of Starfleet Intelligence. Morrow was a man so honor-bound that he'd resigned his post as Commander Starfleet the very day James T. Kirk had stolen the _Enterprise_. He'd said publicly that a commander had to be responsible for the actions of his officers, and that he should have seen Kirk's actions coming. He knew Kirk well—had been his commanding officer when Kirk was still green out of the Academy. He took his responsibilities seriously.

And yet Morrow and Fournier were reputed to be good friends. Which meant Fournier would be calling in favors from Intelligence.

No. Starfleet was no longer the place for Terrence Metcalfe.

Metcalfe's spirits boosted somewhat when he saw Hikaru Sulu's name in the return field of one transmission. He didn't hear from his former captain and old friend nearly often enough. The last transmission had been a few months ago, and very brief. It said hello and informed Metcalfe that Spock's protege, Saavik, was about to join the _Excelsior_ 's crew as Science Officer. Metcalfe had never met Lt. Commander Saavik, though he'd certainly heard of her. She'd been aboard the _Enterprise_ on the training cruise the year following his own. She'd been there when Khan had attacked. Now she was aboard _Excelsior_ , under Sulu's command. It had occurred to Metcalfe more than once these last weeks that, had events gone differently, he might have been there as well. He tried not to dwell on such thoughts.

Noting by its file size that the transmission was fairly long, he keyed the file for playback, looking forward to catching up on the exploits of Starfleet's most advanced vessel and her devil-may-care captain.

When Sulu's face appeared on the screen, however, its expression was hardly devil-may-care. Something was very wrong.

"Hello, Terry," Sulu's image said warmly. "I know you've been out of touch for a while, and I thought you should know... that is, I hope you haven't... Damn." His friend's image rubbed a hand through his hair. He looked tired. "I wanted you to hear from me. I have some bad news about Captain Kirk..."

After the next few words, the message played on for several minutes, unheard. Unconsciously, Metcalfe keyed it to replay three times. Not once did he actually listen to the details. The searing truth of it kept deafening him. No news could have more clearly alerted him that an era had ended, that the universe had just stopped being the place he had always wanted it to be.

James T. Kirk was dead.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saavik visits Vulcan on a mysterious mission. Carol Marcus receives a visit from Leonard McCoy, and an urgent summons to join Saavik.

Public Transportation on Vulcan is, perhaps, the best example of such a system in the known universe. Since Vulcans always do things logically, when they designed their means of carrying large numbers of passengers to various destinations, they performed as expected.

There had been no bond initiatives, no seizure of property through eminent domain, no contract bids. The families who owned the resources donated them, because it was logical. The tradesmen who laid the rails and built the cars donated their time, because it was logical. (It often comes as a surprise to outworlders that there are tradesmen among the intellectual, contemplative Vulcans). Had the resources been refused, they would have been sought elsewhere, but they were not refused. If the tradesmen's efforts took their time away from endeavors that would have assisted them in acquiring food and shelter, food and shelter were provided to them. Had they demanded cash payment in exchange for service, they would have been politely informed that their services were not required. Others would have taken their place. But they did not demand cash payment. It would not have been logical.

Since the time of Surak, Vulcans had done themselves and their planet the great service of controlling their own numbers. It was logical to do so, for overcrowding the planet would have led to a shortage of resources and thus to territorial disputes. Vulcan rarely suffered such ills, therefore, a complex economic system such as other cultures employed was unnecessary on Vulcan. Everything necessary was plentiful and free. It would be illogical for it to be otherwise.

It wasn't a perfect system. It would not have lasted a century among humans, but it had served Vulcan for millennia. It served visitors to the planet well also, for they were provided with hospitality and accommodations without having to fret over money for them.

Consequently, on the day Saavik arrived at Vulcan Space Central's huge terminal, she had merely to key in her desired destination (Mount Seleya) and wait for a car to be available. There were both benches out in the open area for waiting passengers and private meditation chambers, where a signal would quietly alert one of a car's arrival. Having found sufficient solitude during her solo shuttle flight from _Excelsior_ , Saavik sat down on one of the benches.

Captain Sulu had taken her request for leave well, especially for a human. Sulu was, of course, almost Vulcan in his composure at times. He claimed it was his training in aikido which fostered his self-control, not an inherent quality by any means. Although it was unheard of for an officer—a just-promoted officer—to request a month's personal leave only thirty days into an assignment, he had not demanded an explanation. When she had said that her duty to Spock's family called her away, he'd remarked casually that Spock must be very busy right now, being the executor of Captain Kirk's will. This was a false assumption, of course. Spock had engaged competent attorneys to handle the distribution of his friend's estate. Saavik had no desire and no need to correct Sulu, however. The true purpose of her visit here would remain unknown, as it had when she'd made this pilgrimage every year for the past five years.

From across the busy concourse, her name rang out suddenly, called by a familiar, enthusiastic voice. She turned and saw Amanda waving to her and walking quickly in her direction. Amanda's pace had slowed since last she'd seen her. Age was beginning to take its toll. Still, well into her nineties, Vulcan's first and most renowned human citizen carried herself with the grace which befit her station. Saavik hefted her duffle bag and crossed to meet the older woman.

"Saavik!" Amanda exclaimed again as they met. She touched the young woman ever so gently on the wrist with two fingers, a gesture of greeting and affection allowed a parent on Vulcan. Through the gentle brush of their minds, Saavik sensed Amanda's anxiety, mixed with her genuine delight at seeing Saavik again.

"Why didn't you call the house?" Amanda chided. "I had to contact Space Central for an ETA. I've brought a car—"

Saavik raised an eyebrow. Few Vulcans owned private transportation. It wasn't really necessary. Healers, researchers and some others, including diplomats, sometimes couldn't afford to wait for public transit and so owned their own cars. They used them only when public transit would not suffice, however. It appeared that Amanda had not fully adopted this Vulcan custom.

"A car was unnecessary," she said to Amanda. "The public system—"

Amanda smiled a little sadly. "Could you accept that maybe I was anxious to see you again? You've been gone five years, and your last two visits you barely even told us you were on the planet."

"I didn't wish to disturb you," Saavik said as Amanda led her through the concourse toward the public parking lot.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Saavik! We're your family!"

At that, Saavik stiffened. She knew Amanda was sincere, but she could not bring herself to feel she really belonged to any Vulcan family. "You are not." she said. "You and Sarek are Spock's parents. Spock is my benefactor."

Amanda's tone carried the faintest trace reproach. "My son is the closest thing you've ever had to a father. Maybe Vulcan custom makes it too difficult for him to make that relationship legal, but I don't have to let that deprive me of the benefits of being a grandmother."

A grandmother? Saavik had never considered that Amanda might feel such a kinship to her. She'd always been kind to her, and Saavik was aware that extreme kindness was a grandmotherly quality. She'd read human literature and was aware of their familial relationships. She'd never expected a human to seek to form such an attachment to her, though. Baffled by this declaration of acceptance, unsure how to respond, Saavik said nothing.

They came to the car. Amanda spoke to it and, recognizing her voice, it swung its hatch open. Once they were inside, Amanda turned to Saavik and asked, "Does it really help, to be so cold? Does it take the pain away?"

"No," Saavik said quietly. "But it prevents the pain from taking over."

"Saavik, I know it's the Vulcan way, but... well, with everything you've been through, I don't think it would be inexcusable to let a little of your feelings show through."

Everything she'd been through... Saavik let that phrase sink in, and thought about the pain it represented, the tragic events of the past few years that it euphemistically encompassed.

Amanda touched her hand lightly again, just within the bounds of propriety. "At least just with me? I'm very fond of you, Saavik, and—"

"I am very fond of you also, Amanda," Saavik said, surprising herself with her boldness. Was this a Vulcan thing to say—especially to a human? She collected herself and continued in measured tones. "You have accepted me in a way no other in Vulcan society has, and I am grateful. That is one of the reasons I cannot surrender to my feelings about what's happening. If I did, I—Amanda, I am truly afraid that, if I give in to the pain... I'm afraid I'd never regain control. The Romulan side would take over.

"Sometimes I feel that part of me, that barbarian child from Hellguard. I want to scream. I want to find some person to hold responsible for this and rend her limb from limb..." She stopped, suddenly, keenly aware that she had allowed herself to begin to experience the very emotions she feared. She looked away, trying to deny the embarrassment she felt. It, too, was an emotion. "I am sorry. I should not—"

"Don't apologize. Who knows better what goes on in the head of someone who's half-Vulcan?" Amanda smiled. "I raised one, you know."

"I'm sure Spock never felt this way," Saavik whispered.

"Don't kid yourself."

Saavik leaned heavily against the padded seat of the car, reveling in its comfort, though it was the kind of luxury she usually denied herself. Talking about these feelings was a similar luxury. Being with Amanda made it seem appropriate, though. She had to admit it was a relief to unburden herself.

"I thought I'd known pain growing up. I never knew any situation could be this hard to deal with. I suppose if I'd mastered the Vulcan disciplines—"

Amanda reached one arm out, as if to embrace Saavik. Then she caught herself and stopped short, merely brushing fingers through the long, black hair that spilled in curls down Saavik's immaculate crimson jacket. "No, my love. No discipline, no religion, no therapy has ever found a way to change the fact that what you're going through is the worst pain an individual can feel. It's just not something we should ever have to deal with. And you're doing fine."

The expression of human feeling made Saavik uncomfortable, but the acceptance was gratifying, more gratifying than anything she'd experienced in recent months. She did not look away. She simply stared at this kind woman who made no demands of her, who seemed actually to love her. Then Amanda's beatific smile faded, and Saavik's guard went back up. She knew an old argument was about to be revived. "I only wish you'd change your mind and tell—"

"No!" hissed Saavik, immediately regretting the fury in her tone. She quieted but held her voice firm. "No, Amanda. I cannot tell Spock. Not yet."

"He cares for you, Saavik, truly he does. I don't know what's happened between the two of you since Genesis. God knows he won't talk to me about it, but—Maybe that part of his mind just didn't regenerate."

So others had noticed the coolness, the growing distance between Spock and Saavik since that day nine years ago. She tried to prevent her mind from wandering back to that turning point in her life. She had learned that David Marcus, her first lover, had taken shortcuts in the Genesis process, shortcuts which allowed parts of the matrix to degenerate into unstable protomatter. Her respect for him had been damaged, but she'd held onto her love. She hadn't been sure she could feel love. Feeling it then, she wondered if she'd felt it all along. Spock, for instance, had rescued her from a hellish existence on her homeworld. Did she love him?

She'd been forced to question those feelings especially when Spock, in the throes of the Genesis process which had restored his body, had gone through _pon far_. To save his life, she'd bonded with him mentally and physically. The developing Spock had found a new closeness with another person. The overwhelming gratitude of his proto-intelligence had touched her. Here was someone, now a part of herself, who depended on her. David loved her. Spock needed her. Her life was careening in new directions, as if her fate were suddenly powered by warp drive.

And then both of those doorways to the future—both of those possibilities for a new kind of relationship—had been closed. The Klingons had killed David. She'd felt his death in her mind, wrenching her. And Spock... Spock's _katra_ had been restored to his body. Her teacher was back, alive. But the refusion process, the ceremony of _Fal Tor Pan_ , had taken its toll. When Spock had looked at her in the Vulcan dawn on the day of his resurrection, his eyes had been cold. Oh, her surrogate parent, her mentor, was still there, with all his good will towards her; but the needful boy who'd clung to her and loved her and—for a few brief moments—fulfilled her was gone. The old Spock had come to life again in the _Fal Tor Pan_ , free to continue his two-century lifespan. A new Spock had died. An emerging intelligence, only hours old, who spoke no language and knew only one friend, had been superseded by the return of the established mind.

In her own way, Saavik had mourned that other Spock; and, because his existence was directly a result of the death of her teacher, she'd hated herself for that mourning. She could no longer face Spock without shame. She did not tell Amanda this. She'd never told anyone. She'd just withdrawn herself as much as possible, even to the point of not interfering when he'd obviously chosen Valeris as his mate. She knew what Valeris was: a bigot who cloaked her hatred of other races in the language of logic and perfect purity.

Saavik had been Valeris's cadet supervisor on her training cruise. She'd seen Spock's attraction for the girl, and knew it was returned. She also saw that Valeris was, as humans would say, "two-faced." She could and did lie about her beliefs to curry favor with others. But she'd let Valeris take a place at Spock's side that she, Saavik, had once occupied. She had made some protests, to Kirk, to Spock; but Spock had the utmost faith in Valeris. Her loyalty to Spock, her belief that he was the wiser one, forced Saavik to let his decision stand.

She'd left the _Enterprise_ and requested deep space duty. And Valeris had nearly killed Kirk and McCoy, nearly started an interplanetary war.

Saavik had hated herself all over again, for she could have made Spock see the truth when she'd first met Valeris.

"Saavik?" prompted Amanda, and Saavik realized she hadn't answered Amanda's question. Was part of Spock's mind not regenerated?

"No," said Saavik. "There's nothing wrong with Spock. I'm the one who's changed. If his opinion of me has changed, it's my doing." It was true enough.

"But if you'd just talk to him—"

"Please, Amanda," she said, letting fatigue creep into her tone. She knew it would cause Amanda to feel sympathy and cease pressing the issue. "I don't wish to talk about it now."

They completed the trip to Mt. Seleya in silence.

When the car gently touched down on the plateau outside the temple at Seleya, Saavik and Amanda followed the stone path—millennia old—toward the entrance to an annex building. It was far newer than most of the complex, built into the rock of the mountainside. Saavik knew the way well, had walked it in her mind a thousand times over the months since she'd been here last.

The outer door of the building glided open at their approach. The foyer was dark and spacious, actually carved from the mountain rock, with no inner walls. There were irregularly shaped nooks and crannies everywhere. Vulcan architecture left as many of the natural features behind as possible.

A desk, carved from smooth, black marble and looking quite appropriate to the surroundings, was just inside the door. From behind it, a thin, older Vulcan male, his head shaven and covered by the cowl of a monk's robe, stood and approached them. He saluted and spoke quietly.

"Live long and prosper, Saavik and Amanda. It is fortunate you have arrived."

Both returned the gesture. Saavik spoke. "Peace and long life, Healer. I came as quickly as possible. Your message conveyed urgency."

The healer nodded, his expression unchanged. "I regret that conditions have not changed since I contacted you. In fact, there has been a turn for the worse. Unless someone with greater knowledge of this particular problem is brought in, there are only days left."

For a moment, Saavik quite illogically wished for the indirect and wordy style earth physicians used to convey bad news. She knew the Vulcan way was supposed to be better, but at least humans allowed a patient's family to cling to hope a little longer. Her hope had just been taken from her all at once.

Unless...

She nodded slowly, not wishing to appear rushed. "I understand. I had... hesitated to take advantage of one avenue that remains open. Now I have no choice."

"You refer to the human Doctor," said the Healer. "It is illogical that contact was not made earlier."

"Perhaps," admitted Saavik. "But I deemed it necessary to wait. May I use a terminal now?"

The Healer guided Saavik toward his desk. Amanda followed at her heels. Saavik could sense her anxiety, even without touching her. "What if it is too late, Saavik?" she asked as Saavik keyed the call code in.

"I will accept that eventuality," said Saavik, forcing herself to keep her voice even, "only if I am forced to." She sat and waited for the subspace message acknowledgement from earth. It seemed to take longer than normal for the system to respond. Perhaps there was a satellite malfunction. Perhaps the intense emotion of the situation really was catching up to her.

It seemed likely, for she also sensed a presence in the shadows behind her. It was as if someone were watching them. She knew no one was. The room had been empty, save for the healer, when they'd entered. She would have sensed another Vulcan standing in this corner by his psychic presence. And none but a Vulcan would be here.

She was imagining things. Yes, the emotional backlash was affecting her. Still, she felt the presence, as though eyes bore down on her back. And, for one instant, she did feel a psychic presence, like that of another Vulcan. It felt like an icy finger, touching her shoulder. Then it was gone.

Whatever the outcome, she would be glad when this situation was over.

Someday, thought Leonard McCoy, someone was going to figure out that they'd missed this place. He hoped it was long after he was dead. He liked Rehoboth Beach so well that he wondered if it was really a part of earth. That was not to say McCoy disliked earth. It was his home planet, after all. He loved the gentle climate and lifestyle of his native Georgia, so carefully restored to resemble the civilization described in Margaret Mitchell's classic novel and the even more classic 2-D film based upon it.

Though war and plague had ravaged it in the early 21st century, Atlanta now looked very much as it had before—better, even. It had all the modern amenities. The entire city was computer networked, the transportation and weather computer-controlled. It was like living in a historical museum which never closed.

But McCoy could feel the newness, sense the artificiality of his home. He could never forget it had been planned and engineered. Rehoboth was different. The history of North America, the cataclysmic events which had shaped the modern world, had passed it by, time and time again. It had its share of new construction, and its modern amenities as well; but no war had ever brought down its structures, so many of them dated back to its founding as a Methodist retreat in the late 19th century. Because it had never been made a level field for the planners of the 23rd century, it had a flavor most places on the continent—and the planet—did not. It had a flavor of having been slow-cooked, rather than programmed. It had a feeling of natural growth to it. It made McCoy very comfortable. He could see why someone—especially someone of his own generation—would choose to live here.

Carol Marcus's house was only a few hundred feet from the ocean at the south end of the town. The house dated to the late 20th century, and showed the period's affection for natural wood-grain exteriors, huge windows, and balconies and porches—it had two of each. McCoy recognized it immediately from the holos Jim had shown him right after he and Carol had decided to buy it five years ago.

Now it was Carol's alone. Did it look a touch sadder because it had never really been able to house the man who loved it so? Did it know its co-owner had died in space, saving a shipful of green officers, as well as two of his oldest friends?

"Sentimental hogwash!" McCoy muttered to himself, mounting the front porch and striding to the door. He was just getting fanciful because he had so much damned time on his hands. That was why he was here: because Starfleet had just launched its newest, biggest ship, and they didn't need his consulting services now. Another ship wouldn't be launched for two years, given the radical cutbacks in Starfleet construction. McCoy was left with plenty of leisure time, since his sole duty consisted of consulting on sickbay design and giving inspection tours, as well as guest lectures at various universities.

If only he hadn't been on that damned trip to Rigel when Jim had toured the _Enterprise_ -B! Maybe things would have been different. He'd had no choice, though. The chance to lecture at the new Med School on Rigel was not to be passed up, and they'd offered him two dates: the launch of the _Enterprise_ -B, or...

Jim and Carol's wedding day. With an almost Vulcan detachment, he observed that his grief was as intense as ever. It still wrenched his heart to think of the life his two friends had never been allowed to live. He could only imagine how all this must feel to Carol, who'd rekindled her relationship with Jim, years after their son's death, only to lose him once and for all. McCoy wondered if his visit could really help her any.

Oh well, it beat sitting in his rocker, waiting for one of the kids next door to bring a wounded kitten around to be doctored. He knocked at the front door. Inside, he could hear Carol, rushing about and heading toward him. There was a heavy, satisfying _whoomf_ as the door allowed the slightly cool outside air to enter the house. Carol looked frenzied, anxious and regretful all at once as she saw him.

"Leonard!" she sighed, as she pulled him into the house by his shoulder and kissed his cheek. "I'm so sorry!"

He set down his single travel bag and surveyed the pleasantly cluttered living room, warmed by the afternoon sun.

"Yeah," he said, grinning, "that's what beautiful women always say when they open a door and find me standing there."

Carol clucked her tongue and squeezed his shoulder. He noticed the bag on the couch, with folded clothes beside it. "You're packing."

"I'm afraid so," said Carol. "That's why I'm sorry. I didn't have time to contact you. I called your home, but the computer said you'd already left, and—"

"Well, where are you going?" he asked.

"Vulcan," she said, laying two blouses into the open bag. "Immediately."

"Now I'm the one who's sorry," snorted McCoy. "Why in god's name are you going to Vulcan?"

Carol stopped packing and frowned. "Well, I had a very unusual call from Lt. Commander Saavik. She says it's imperative I come there immediately. She won't say why."

"That's odd."

"I know," said Carol. "But what am I supposed to do? I thought maybe you might have some idea what's going on with her."

He shook his head. "No, I haven't heard from Saavik since she left _Enterprise_ a couple of years ago. I don't even know if Spock has heard from her. He didn't exactly send her off with a parade."

Carol's face registered her surprise. "Are you telling me two Vulcans had a fight?"

McCoy laughed. "Not the Vulcans, no. I think their two Vulcan halves got together and made one, stern, disapproving whole-Vulcan while Saavik's Romulan half took on Spock's human one."

"Who won?"

"Sulu," said McCoy. "He got the best science officer Starfleet's produced in thirty years."

Carol laughed and looked affectionately at him. "That's why I wanted you to come here. No one else makes me laugh anymore." She studied him. "You're very fond of Saavik, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "She's a nice kid for a Vulcan. She reminds me of Joanna sometimes—all curiosity and stubbornness and no damned common sense—except when she warned us Valeris was trouble."

Carol shook her head. "Jim told me all about that. Was she why Saavik left the _Enterprise_?"

"Among other things, I think so. Saavik changed, too, after Genesis. When she came back to the ship again, she was... I dunno... colder, maybe. She wasn't the hotheaded kid trying to play Vulcan anymore. She was like a patient who was always in pain and trying like hell not to let anyone know."

"Is that a professional diagnosis, Doctor?"

He smiled and gave a little bow, "Just an ol' country doctor's humble opinion, ma'am."

Carol looked at the clock and started. "I gotta go!" Grabbing her bag, she hung it on her shoulder and hugged him, kissing him again. "Tell you what," she said. "There's no need to ruin your vacation. Stay here and take care of the house for me, huh? The computer can give you a map of the town, and—"

"Actually," said McCoy, picking up his own bag, "I seemed to be all prepared to take a trip here. How about I keep you company on the way to Vulcan?"

"You hate Vulcan."

"True, but I also hate travelling alone, and I wouldn't wish it on a beautiful woman if there was something I could do about it. What do you say, can you handle me persterin' you for a few days?"

She laughed again and grabbed his hand. " "Leonard, there aren't very many people I'd rather have pester me."

As they started out onto the porch and she programmed the lock, he said, "You know, I wouldn't even mind seeing Spock again. You think he's gotten uglier?"


	3. Interlude 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ENTERPRISE REGAINED universe ceased to exist... so whose memories are these of an encounter between Saavik, Metcalfe and Kruge?

His name was Lord Kruge, a minor, but ambitious Captain of a Klingon Bird of Prey. His attack had shown an great effrontery, even for a Klingon. Only minutes ago, his ship had decloaked, right in the middle of Federation space, and opened fire on the _Enterprise_. They'd bet on a surprise attack causing great initial damage. The starship outgunned them ten to one, after all.

He'd made a wise wager. Klingon/Romulan technology had improved in recent years, and the delay time for disruptors upon dropping cloak had been greatly reduced. They'd gotten off their first shot before Angela Teller's sensors had even spotted them, and a second before Metcalfe could get shields up.

All intraship communications were out, as was turbolift service. The bridge crew had no way of communicating with anyone belowdecks, no way of alerting Scotty of the need for repairs, or even ascertaining that Scotty was still alive. Worst of all, they had no way to defend the _Enterprise_ in battle or determine the extent of her actual damage. For all they knew, the warp engines were, at this moment, going critical, and about to atomize them all.

Admiral Kirk had wanted to dive into a jeffries tube and crawl between hulls to Auxiliary control, but Saavik, quoting regulations to the end, had reminded him that a flag officer was not entitled to take such risks. Kirk had agreed that she and Terry Metcalfe would make their way to engineering if possible, auxiliary control if not. He authorized them to take whatever action necessary to defend the _Enterprise_ , acting under his guidance via communicator. If possible, they would neutralize the Bird of Prey.

In the cramped, hot enclosure of the network of tunnels that ran between decks, Metcalfe inched along behind Saavik. He did not like enclosed spaces, by nature, and this one was causing sweat to saturate his hair and clothes. Saavik was far more comfortable, up ahead. Vulcans were accustomed to extreme heat, and claustrophobia would simply not be an issue. Engineering had not been accessible. The access tunnel walls had collapsed in several places during the brief attack, and no path remained open. They were now a few meters from Auxiliary Control. Light streamed into the tunnel from the wall grate that opened onto the ship's secondary control center. Well, Terry thought, at least it's a good sign that there's power.

Then he heard a telltale whine, the high-pitched sound characteristic of a transporter beam. His familiarity with ship's systems, however, told him that this was not the _Enterprise_ transporter they were hearing.

"Uh oh," he muttered. Saavik froze in place, knowing, as he did, what must be happening within. _Enterprise_ 's power was not at full capacity, and any number of systems could be gone entirely, including shields. It was quite possible for their attackers to just beam right in, unnoticed.

The routine ping of a Klingon hand sensor (based on stolen tricorder technology), confirmed their suspicions. "We gotta get out of here," he said to Saavik. "Before their sensors—"

He was going to say, "Before their sensors pick us up." He was interrupted by an angry voice, sputtering in Klingonese, and the harsh, metallic scrape of the grate being ripped away from the wall. Even as he and Saavik scrambled backward, a Klingon's head, shoulders, and disruptor-bearing arm came through the opening. The barrel of the weapon was levelled at them.

"Do not move," the Klingon said abruptly.

They were summarily hauled out of the access tunnel and carried, each by two armored warriors, before the Klingon who was obviously in command of the small raiding party. He looked them over, clearly disappointed by what he saw.

"I am Kruge," he said. He spoke in phlegmatic tones, as if he didn't care whether or not they heard or understood him. "Which of you commands?"

"Neither," Saavik said calmly. "I am Lieutenant Saavik, ship's navigator. My serial number is—"

Kruge roared. "I do not care to hear a recitation of meaningless numbers. A Klingon would never let something so impersonal identify him. Our actions speak who we are."

"Butchers?" asked Metcalfe, smiling politely.

Kruge's expression said he might cuff Metcalfe in the mouth but couldn't be bothered. "Defenders of our people," he corrected. "Against the doomsday weapons being engineered by your scientists." He whirled on Saavik. "You! We are aware of the capabilities of the project known as Genesis. You will give us its specifications."

Saavik faced him calmly. "I am not a scientist."

Kruge exhaled heavily. "That's hard to believe, Vulcan. But tell me, then, where are the scientists? I know this ship is commanded by the Genesis admiral, by Kirk. Where does he keep them?"

Terry started to ask if Kruge really believed that the research team was kept aboard ship, but a look from Saavik silenced him. He realized that she wanted to say as little as possible about this subject. That made sense. If he wanted to locate Genesis, Kruge had come to the right place. The Admiral's son, David Marcus, was one of the Genesis team. Many people on board knew where they could be found—including Saavik and Metcalfe. It was best that Kruge not know this. He nodded imperceptibly. He would say nothing. He knew, however, that it would do them no good. Under the influence of a Klingon mind sifter, Saavik might not crumble, but Metcalfe would tell everything. For his trouble, he would be left mindless.

Their only chance was to convince Kruge they knew nothing, and hope Kirk and the others could stop him before he began torturing the entire crew. But how...?

Saavik was answering Kruge's question. "The Admiral does not share his secrets with his officers. We know nothing of Genesis."

Kruge fumed, and started to say something in reply, when one of his officers interrupted. The man held one of their confiscated communicators and had been playing intently with the controls. "Milord, I have established communications with the bridge. You may speak to Kirk."

Kruge strode to the man and seized the communicator, blustering into it, making threatening statements and demanding that Kirk release all Genesis information to him. Kirk's own anger radiated from the tiny speaker, as he promised Kruge that his crew would pay for the treaty violation. As the exchange continued, Terry saw Saavik's head moving, trying to draw his attention to her. He looked, making eye contact. She said nothing, but stretched her fingers toward him, as if reaching out to touch him. The firm grasp of the Klingons who restrained her prevented her from actually making contact, but he got the idea. He stretched his own fingers toward her, knowing what she wanted from him. Their fingertips barely brushed.

He felt her mind. He'd never been in mental contact with a Vulcan before. Sernak had told him much about the practices but had never had occasion to demonstrate. This was not a mind meld, either. There was no total sharing of thoughts and feelings. This was only a touch, enough to transmit a thought or two, if the one transmitting had a disciplined mind. Saavik obviously did.

Still, the single thought she conveyed through the touch carried so much of... her. Perhaps it was just the strangeness of hearing another person's thought in his own mind, and knowing it came from outside. He was sure, though, that he felt her passionate presence, the anger and fear she kept so well hidden, reaching out to him.

//An attack,// came the single, vague question in his mind. //Can you...?//

The link was not perfect. The concept was not clear. An attack? He wondered. Did she want him to actually try to fight the Klingons, or... then an image formed. It wasn't a clear picture, exactly, merely an impression. He understood what she had in mind.

His scream surprised the Klingons. As he clutched his hands to his throat and made gagging sounds, they dropped him to the floor, clearly afraid he had something contagious. He kept his eyes unfocused but could tell that Saavik was struggling in the Klingon's grasp.

"Saavik!" Kirk's voice demanded. "What's going on down there?"

"Lieutenant Metcalfe is having another seizure," she replied. "It must be his encounter with the Rigel Fever victims."

Terry let his eyes roll back into his head and thought wryly, so much for the Vulcan inability to lie. He gagged some more, hoping he wasn't overacting (as if the Klingons could tell) and acted as though he were trying to speak.

"Kruge," said Kirk, "My officer is ill. Let Lt. Saavik help him. Then we can talk."

Kruge must have nodded his approval quietly, for Saavik was quickly at Terry's side, her warm hands taking hold of one of his. She checked his pulse with her fingers. Her approval of his performance radiated in her touch. He also sensed... an apology? For what?

Then she placed her hand on his face, in what he knew was the touch of a mind meld. "I must calm him," she said to the Klingons.

Metcalfe knew, from his conversations with Sernak, what was required. He cleared his mind, let it go blank, surrendered control to her as her presence came into the confines of his thoughts. He closed his eyes, and an image of blackness formed in his thoughts. Blackness, but for one, small, pinpoint of light.

The light moved closer, grew larger. Then he had another image. Saavik. She was with him, in his mind. Even stronger now he could feel her controlled passions: her fear for their safety, her anger that the Klingons were holding them. Her mind, like his, was in a sort of high gear, experiencing feelings, but not really acknowledging them during the crisis.

//Terry,// she said in his mind. It occurred to him she'd never addressed him by anything but his rank. He was glad for the familiarity. Of course, it would have made no sense to be formal, at this level of intimacy.

And then the true level of intimacy of this contact hit home to him. An image came to him—they were naked before each other. Here, now, they could see everything, hide nothing. A surge of embarrassment rose up in the meld, and Terry was surprised to find it wasn't only his own. Saavik was embarrassed as well, for she felt his admiration for her, his intense attraction to her, which he'd felt since the moment he saw her. She felt his frustration that she was a Vulcan, and would not acknowledge his feelings, and so he hadn't spoken of them. She saw images—blatant and raw—of the things his human desire made him wish he could do with her.

And he felt her reactions... uncertainty, apprehension, disapproval... gratitude? At some level, she also had feelings about him—

//Terry,// her voice called out again, sharply. //We must act quickly. If they subject us to their mind sifter, or even a truth serum, you will tell what you know of Genesis. We cannot allow that. I can obscure my own knowledge of Genesis from any tactic they might try. I must do the same for you.//

//Yes. Even if they do drain my mind of everything—//

//I will not let them!// her voice responded, fiercely. It was not like her. Or rather, it was not like his image of her. He saw now, within her mind, that fierceness was very much a part of who she was. It was a fact she tried to hide.

//That's not logical, is it?// his mind laughed. //You can't stop them. But we can protect David.//

//And the project itself.//

//It's David you're concerned about. Don't be ashamed of that. He's lucky to have someone who feels that way. Go ahead, Saavik.//

Her mind moved in his, touching, caressing, sifting through thoughts and memories, gently lifting and folding... He felt his knowledge being stored behind walls, behind locked doors with no key, he felt—

She was gone.

Metcalfe recovered his senses and focused again on what was happening in Auxiliary control. Saavik had been pulled away from him and was on the floor before Kruge. The Klingon Captain held her arm in one hand, his dagger in the other. Terry tried to bolt to his feet, but the other Klingons held him back.

"A mind meld," he spat at Saavik. "Very clever, Vulcan, but did you think I would not recognize it? I am well aware that you can hide your thoughts from the mind sifter, woman, as I am aware that your friend cannot." He jerked his head at Metcalfe. "Did you finish the job?"

Saavik did not speak. Her eyes blazed at Kruge.

The Klingon shook his head, disgusted. "Never mind. We will put him through the mind sifter anyway. If the information is there, we will find it. If not... I have a pet on my ship who will enjoy fresh meat." He looked Saavik up and down, appraisingly. "But you are useless to me, Vulcan."

He lifted the dagger, and shouted at the communicator, which one of his men held nearby, allowing him to address Kirk.

"Admiral," Kruge said, "your officers are very untrustworthy. They seem to believe that this is a game, not to be taken seriously."

"They know this is no game, Kruge," said Kirk. "But they're young. They can't help you. Beam me down there, and—"

Kruge shook his head. "Not yet, Kirk. First, I must prove to you that I am in earnest." He looked dully at Saavik. "Once I have executed the woman, you will be more eager to deal with me."

He snapped the communicator shut, cutting off Kirk's reply, and nodded to two of his men to hold Saavik down in front of him. He pressed a release on the dagger's handle, and two more deadly blades popped out at the sides.

"No!" Metcalfe cried out.

Kruge spun, his dagger raised, and stalked menacingly toward the human, his face a mask of disgust. "So," he asked bitterly, "you would rather die in her stead?" He seized Terry by the hair, jerked his head back, exposing his neck. The cold tip of the dagger brushed his jugular.

Terry set his jaw firm and met the Klingon's scowl. "It is a good day to die," he spat.

With a shrug, Kruge raised his dagger. Behind him, Saavik cried out in protest. Levering himself against the two Klingons who held his arms, Metcalfe flipped his legs up, connecting both feet hard against Kruge's groin. The blow did not have the effect it would have on a human, but the Klingon Captain staggered back a step.

His men, surprised by what Klingons considered a cowardly attack on another warrior, suffered a moment's hesitation, and loosened their grip on Metcalfe's arms. In that moment, he jerked himself free and launched his body at Kruge, channeling his rage into a savage battle cry, as Hikaru had taught him. He managed to knock the large Klingon off his feet.

As he brought a fist to Kruge's jaw, it occurred to him that Saavik's cry had not been audible. It had been in his mind.

//Saavik?// he called out.

//I am here,// she responded with a thought. //The meld has not been closed. They pulled us apart too quickly. I am sorry.//

//Don't apologize!// Kruge had now recovered from his initial shock and had flipped Metcalfe onto his back. He grappled for the dagger he had dropped. //I cannot win this battle!//

//It was wrong of you to sacrifice yourself,// she replied, and he felt the anguish in her mind. They both knew he would be dead in seconds.

//Don't be silly,// he replied. //I can't let them put a dagger into the most beautiful navigator in the fleet. Regulations, you know.//

Kruge raised his weapon. The blow would be hard and quick. Terry focused his energy on saying goodbye to Saavik. Again he heard a cry of pain from her mind. Kruge seemed to be moving in slow motion.

He wondered why his life wasn't flashing before his eyes. He also wondered, so close to death, why he noticed most of all that Auxiliary Control had a very unpleasant smell about it.

And then it was over.

McCoy was looking down at him. He wondered where he was, and what had happened.

//You are in sickbay,// said a voice. //Admiral Kirk recovered emergency systems and pumped a noxious compound into Auxiliary Control.//

//Saavik! You're still with me.//

//We have not yet ended the meld. We must—//

"Okay," McCoy announced to Christine Chapel, "we've got the last of that pea soup Jim threw at them filtered out. Let's sedate them and let them sleep it off."

Terry heard a small voice of protest to his right. He turned to see Saavik on the exam couch next to him. It was disorienting, to have her in his head, and then see her so far away, physically.

"Doctor," Saavik said quietly, her voice hoarse. Whatever gas they'd inhaled had been nasty. Metcalfe's own throat was raspy, and he felt too weak even to raise an arm. "We must..." Saavik began. She tried to sit up, and failed. Dr. Chapel rushed to catch her before she hit her head on the hard frame of the table.

"Quiet!" McCoy barked. "You're not the doctor here, Lieutenant. I'll decide what you 'must' do!" He picked up a hypo and moved to her side. Metcalfe heard the faint hiss of the injection and saw Saavik's eyes close. McCoy came toward him with a second hypo.

Saavik's last conscious thought drifted to him. //I am sorry for this intrusion. I will break the meld when we awaken.//

In the half-light of fading consciousness, he tried to ask her why she felt she had to break it. The thought never made it through. Together, they slept.

Together, they dreamed... the same dreams.

When he awoke, she was gone. A day of having someone else in your mind, even if most of that day is spent asleep, leads to a jarring sense of loss when that person is gone from your mind again.

Metcalfe sat up in his sickbay bed, calling out her name. The bed next to him was empty.

"She's on the bridge," said a voice.

He looked to the other side of his bed. Angela Teller was seated there, smiling at him. The _Enterprise_ 's science officer was a diminutive brunette, with huge brown eyes, and a pixieish face which smiled easily. She and Metcalfe had been lovers almost since the day he'd come aboard. She was almost twenty years his senior, but their mutual attraction bridged the age gap.

"So," she said in her usual, teasing tone. "Got mind-melded, did we?"

"Yeah," he said non-committaly.

"What goes on in a Vulcan's head?"

"I—there wasn't time for me to notice... really."

"Does she finally know how you feel about her?"

"Angela! I—" He broke off. He didn't want to hurt her. Angela Teller was a kind, loving person, who'd brought more love into his life than he'd ever known.

She reached out and cupped his chin in one hand, turning his face to hers. "It's okay," she whispered. "I know how you feel about her. I know how it feels to be twenty-two and in love at first sight."

"It's that obvious?"

"You can't cover up to me, Metcalfe, I know you too well. I never meant to demand an exclusive commitment from you, you know."

"I know. It's just—"

"It's just that, on earth, in school, every relationship came with the possibility of permanence, and some kind of legal option to buy." She laughed softly. "I fell in love and got married three times before I realized that Starfleet was what I wanted to do with my life. The rules are different out here. Officers don't get involved that way, because it doesn't usually work out."

"Then I'm a fool to let myself feel... the way I feel about Saavik." He had to admit it felt good to admit it to Angela. It was one confidence he hadn't shared with her.

"It's always foolish to fall in love, Metcalfe. The odds are always against it working out. That's why it's so wonderful when it does." She leaned forward and joined her hands at the back of his neck. "You've been attracted to Saavik since the day you met. Don't think I've missed it. Her Vulcan coldness hasn't changed your feelings. That says to me that there's really something to them."

"I guess."

She took his face in both hands. "Listen. You have the most potential to be a decent human being of any man I've ever been involved with. And not that I'm the slut of the galaxy or anything, but that's a lot."

She grinned. "Go for it. You're a fool if you don't, and I know you're not a fool."

She kissed him and left the room.

Terry Metcalfe opened his eyes in darkness. As he sat up in bed, the lights, sensing his presence, automatically came on. He was still in his room, still on assignment. For a while, he'd really believed he was...

Where?

Already the dream was fading, as so many did.

There'd been a woman. There'd been someone he loved. It wasn't Kaya, and he couldn't shake the feeling he had for her. He wanted to protect her, to care for her.

Who was she?

It wasn't the first time he'd awakened with this feeling, that there was someone, somewhere, that he was supposed to know.

Someone he loved.

But it was just a dream.

As always, he lay awake the rest of the night, trying to remember it, wishing he could return to the dream. Somehow, he knew he'd be happy there, wherever there was.


	4. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol learns Saavik's secret.

Had Saavik been human, she would never have been able to leave Mt. Seleya and function in the atmosphere of inanity that was everyday life, even on Vulcan. Humans would have stayed in their place, useless, helpless, crying and cursing an unloving god. Saavik was not human.

Nor was she a full Romulan. Had she been, she would have hurled furniture, beaten—perhaps killed—the healers at Mt. Seleya, and threatened revenge against anyone who might be construed to be to blame for her ill fortune. She would have plotted the ways, in the future, that others would be made to suffer, so that her suffering today might not be forgotten. A Romulan, also, would not have left Mt. Seleya. She would have stayed, considering it her duty, and been just as useless and helpless as a human.

Fortunately for all those she encountered, Saavik was half Vulcan, and it was her Vulcan discipline which forced her to leave the place where she could do no possible good. At least, she forced herself to leave for spans of hours. She always returned, to check on progress, to assess the situation. Even a full Vulcan, deep down, might have to admit to hoping for the occasional miracle.

Tonight, during some of those hours away, she was at Sarek and Amanda's home, a dinner guest—one of two. Sarek had also invited a new fellow of the Vulcan Science Academy, a young man with no living family whom Sarek had agreed to sponsor. It was an obligation that the influential members of Vulcan society were expected to undertake, to mentor those who did not have parents to assist and guide them in their careers. Spock had done this for Saavik, though she was also his ward, and for Valeris, though her parents still lived. They had just never been vocal in supporting a Starfleet career for their daughter. Saavik often wondered if Valeris's own parents recognized her true nature and did not want to be associated with the crimes they suspected she would someday commit.

Of course, the usual relationship between mentor and protege did not involve emotional entanglements of the sort Spock's and Valeris's had. Sarek's new charge was a man he didn't even know, who'd come to him bearing a letter of recommendation from an old colleague.

"His name is Selek," Amanda was saying to Saavik as she busily laid cutlery on the dinner table, next to elaborately folded cloth napkins and ornate plates and cups from earth. Saavik would have offered to assist but was still working out the placement pattern of the various accouterments, and trying to determine all of their purposes.

"Actually, I want your opinion of him," Amanda said quietly. "There's something very unusual about him."

"What, precisely?" asked Saavik.

Amanda chuckled. "I'm afraid I don't know. That's why I want your opinion. You think I'm being very illogical and human, don't you?"

"No," said Saavik slowly. "While you are no doubt relying on human intuition, I do understand the concept of having a... 'feeling' about someone. I do not call it a 'feeling,' but—"

"No," smiled Amanda. "I suppose you call it 'an initial, vague hypothesis, to be verified at the earliest convenience by empirical data and analysis."

Saavik nodded. "That is an excellent phrase for it, yes."

The gentle sound of the door sliding open in the foyer interrupted them. "That must be Sarek," Amanda said.

The ambassador entered the dining area, separated from the rest of the house only by placement of furniture and shelves. Vulcan was a world of open spaces, and its people had never gotten into the habit of subdividing their living spaces to the extent that earth humans did. There were few interior walls. Still, Amanda had created the illusion of compartmentalization.

"My wife," Sarek said quietly, and touched his fingers to Amanda's outstretched ones. The obvious fondness the elder Vulcan displayed was not lost on Saavik. It fascinated her that he could be so open and comfortable with his emotions. Of course, who was there to challenge him in his own home? Or on a planet where he was a leading citizen? Despite Vulcan's egalitarian practices in many areas, there were privileges that rank conveyed. Would she ever be so comfortable expressing affection for a mate?

She doubted more each day that her path would ever be shared by another, as Amanda's was.

The young man accompanying Sarek stepped from behind him, and Saavik felt herself tense slightly. A non-Vulcan might even have jumped, for his appearance was sudden and startling. She had not noticed him at first, behind Sarek. No, that wasn't true, her eyes had registered the image of a young Vulcan male, but her mind hadn't confirmed it. It was as if one of her senses didn't acknowledge him. The answer came to her.

"You're psi-blind."

Sarek raised an eyebrow, and Saavik regretted her outburst. Vulcans who suffered from the relatively rare disorder of having no telepathic abilities were no longer shunned outcasts, but mentioning their condition was as rude as pointing out a missing limb.

"This is Selek," said Sarek evenly. "Selek, my son's ward, Lt. Commander Saavik."

Saavik raised her hand in greeting. "Forgive my outburst, Selek. It was inappropriate."

Selek nodded. "I am accustomed to it, Commander. It is...unsettling, to see a Vulcan, and not feel his presence. You have never met a psi-blind before?"

"No," said Saavik, "but the majority of my shipmates are human."

"The two experiences are not equivalent. One's subconscious does not expect to feel a human mind from a distance, so there is no inconsistency. It is different with a Vulcan."

Somewhat hurriedly, Amanda urged them all to the table, giving Saavik a chance to study Selek more closely. He was, she decided, close to herself in age. His features were not unpleasant, although his skin had an odd tinge to it, as though he'd been subjected to artificial sun lamps. It was just a little too green. Still, he looked otherwise like many of the young Vulcans one might meet in the corridors of the Science Academy.

There was just one thing about him that didn't match any other Vulcan she'd met: his eyes. Most Vulcans had deep, brown eyes, almost black. There was an occasional mutation—green or blue, but they were rare. Selek's eyes were that same brown, but they moved about more rapidly, scanning and taking in his surroundings. It was a noticeable difference. Most Vulcans, due to their meditative and Spartan natures, avoided excess movement of any kind. They relied far less on their vision than humans did to tell them what was happening around them. This was probably the result of humans' ancient forbearers having no psychic sense to warn them of an enemy's approach. Their vision and hearing were thus more crucial to them.

That might have been the case with Selek, except that present-day psi-blinds didn't develop in an atmosphere which required such vigilance. Humans only darted their eyes and fidgeted so much because it was a learned trait, left over from ages past.

When they were seated, and Sarek had offered each of his guests and his wife a glass of visikh, a mild fermented beverage popular on Vulcan, Saavik asked, "What is your field of study, Selek?"

"Archaeology," the young man replied. "My late parents were archaeologists. I'm afraid I grew up rather far from Vulcan and its society, on a handful of worlds which housed the ruins of dead civilizations. That is why I may seem a bit... out of step with other Vulcans."

"Time will remedy that," observed Sarek.

"Not too quickly, I hope," added Amanda. "It's refreshing to have a little flavor of other worlds now and then."

"I am pleased," said Selek, "to be able to bring exotic flavor to this environment, Lady Amanda." Was there just the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes and the curve of his mouth? Saavik wondered. Perhaps the rigid discipline Spock had taught her was only for halfbreeds, or perhaps Selek was just echoing Sarek's own relaxed tone.

"Commander Saavik," Selek said, "You are stationed aboard the _Excelsior_."

"I am Science Officer."

"I have met Captain Sulu. I take it he is a proficient captain."

"Yes. I have served with him only for six weeks," she explained. "Before that I was helmsman on the _Enterprise_."

"Indeed? You served on the Khitomer mission?"

"No. I transferred out over a year ago. I taught at the Academy, awaiting a deep space posting."

Selek's eyebrows raised—both of them—only slightly. It was an unusual gesture for a Vulcan. "You were dissatisfied with serving on the _Enterprise_?"

Saavik hesitated. Of course she was dissatisfied. How did Selek know? More important, why would he ask? It wasn't like Spock—and Saavik gauged Vulcan behavior using Spock as a reference—to ask such personal questions. It wasn't like many people to display such an interest in her feelings. Still, she would not discuss her difficulties aboard _Enterprise_ —her difficulties with Spock—with a stranger.

"I... desired a deep space assignment. My mentor, Captain Spock benefitted highly in his time on exploration missions. I desired that kind of experience."

Amanda was looking at her out of the corner of her eye. She knew Saavik was lying. Did she disapprove? Saavik speculated, based on her knowledge of Amanda, that she did not. Very likely, she appreciated Saavik's loyalty to her son in not discussing such personal matters with an outsider.

After dinner, they sat in the dining room where Amanda served coffee and various desserts—all earth recipes—which Selek seemed particularly taken with. Saavik decided his travels had put him amidst a great deal of human cuisine. Most Vulcans were not partial to the pastries humans enjoyed.

"Tell me, Commander," Selek asked as he sipped his coffee. "What is your opinion on the Romulan Unification effort?"

Saavik hesitated. "Ambassador Sarek would be a more fit party to whom to address that question."

"Selek is aware of my views," said Sarek.

All Vulcan was aware of Sarek's views. He distrusted the Romulans, as any wise man did, but he did not have the reputation for twitting their ambassadors in sessions as he did with the Klingons. That his son had begun tentative discussions with the Romulan diplomats, Sarek had said publicly, demonstrated Spock's commitment to the philosophy of _IDIC_. Sarek approved the effort but would not participate.

"And," said Selek, "you, Commander, are more fit than any other in the Federation to address the issue, in that you are one of the Federation's only citizens with Romulan ancestry. Some might say you are a living symbol of the Unification—"

"I am not," she interrupted—too quickly, she knew. Her tone was also angry. The others looked at her, surprised. "Forgive me, I did not mean to be harsh." She looked at Selek. He seemed... amused? "You see, Selek, I do not often discuss my Romulan ancestry. I have chosen the Vulcan way. I am a poor symbol for unification, as I would excise my Romulan ancestry, if I could. I have no inclination to associate with the citizens of an empire which..." She stopped. Discussing the atrocities of the Romulans on Hellguard would make her more emotional than was polite. "The Romulans are savages. I hope unification might teach them a better way, but I am not the one to carry out Spock's proposal."

"It is my place to ask your forgiveness," Selek said with great sincerity. "I did not realize you had such strong..." she thought he was going to say "feelings." "...personal opposition to the Romulans. If I have caused offense—"

"No," she said quietly. It was best not to discuss it further. She had embarrassed herself and embarrassed her hosts. And yet, some part of her wanted Selek to understand her reaction. She found herself continuing. "I was born on Hellguard, Selek. Have you heard of it?"

"No," he replied.

"It was a colony of the Romulan Empire, near the Neutral Zone border. It was declared a failure only decades after its inception. During its brief existence, Hellguard was home to a Romulan detention facility. People captured in the Neutral Zone were held there for extradition. They were used for slave labor... and experimentation."

"Experimentation?"

"It has long been discussed that Romulans have been absent from Vulcan presence for so long that perhaps their DNA has evolved differently. Indeed, the Romulan government maintains that interbreeding between the species is impossible."

Selek raised an eyebrow. "How do they explain your existence?"

"They deny my existence, and that of the hundred other half-caste children they abandoned on Hellguard. We were bred to satisfy their curiosity. Once we existed, we satisfied their need for labor, for experimental subjects. We satisfied their lusts. When the colony was declared a failure, it was not expedient to take us with the colonists. The authorities assumed we would die."

Selek appeared distracted. "That experience... would give one cause to doubt the stability of the Romulan government. I am..." he paused. He was choosing his words carefully. "It is regrettable that you were forced to undergo such an experience. It is fortunate that the Vulcans saw fit—"

"The Vulcans did not see fit," Amanda said pointedly. "Just as many of them do not see fit to support the Unification. Our son led the mission to Hellguard which rescued Saavik."

"Fascinating," said Selek. "It would appear that Ambassador Spock has displayed a long-standing interest in reuniting Romulans and Vulcans. Whether you accept the position or not, Saavik, you are an example of the benefits the Federation may gain by his efforts."

Vulcans did not engage in flattery. What, Saavik wondered, motivated Selek to compliment her so? And what had motivated her to discuss her past? She avoided doing so, almost exclusively. "You do me honor," she responded formally.

He raised his eyebrow. "I admire you. To rise from... slavery, become what you have, and still, even abstractly, support the unification effort—"

"I am a Vulcan. It is logical."

"Most Vulcans," said Sarek pointedly, "do not agree. To them, there is logic in shunning that which is proven destructive."

"That is not logic," replied Saavik. "It is pragmatism. It is the attitude of those who would have left me to die on Hellguard."

Selek nodded. "That brand of... pragmatism... is a vice shared by many races. Vulcan is not the only place in the Federation where slavery and oppression are ignored in the name of expedience."

Saavik studied him as he said this. There was an intensity about him. He was making no abstract intellectual observation. Selek had strong opinions about the oppression of other beings. Saavik could see in his eyes that he had had personal experience with the very brand of cruelty in whose shadow she had been born. He was an odd creature, this Selek. So un-Vulcan. So insightful, even empathic, for one who was psi-blind. And his emotions, suppressed outwardly, in true Vulcan fashion, yet they radiated from him like...

A voice whispered her name. A voice was in her mind. Selek's eyes focused on hers. It was... it had to be... she could feel his conviction, his passion, even his pain. His mind reached for hers...

Saavik shook her head, trying to clear it. For the briefest moment, it had seemed she could sense Selek's thoughts. That was impossible. Selek was psi-blind. There was no possible way—

"Selek," said Sarek, "you look distracted. Are you unwell?"

Saavik looked up. Indeed, the young Vulcan looked pained. He rubbed his temples slowly and even winced. "I seem to have developed a rather severe headache," he said quietly.

Amanda started to rise. "I have medicine—"

Selek raised his hand. "Do not trouble yourself, Lady Amanda. It is best that I... return to my quarters and meditate."

Sarek nodded. "Always the most advisable method."

Selek rose slowly, his muscles tense. The headache had certainly developed suddenly. More surprising, though, was Selek's reaction. Vulcans, who prided themselves on their control over their minds and bodies, normally showed no outward signs of pain when the trouble was as minor as a headache. Indeed, Saavik didn't believe Spock ever even casually mentioned it when he had a headache. Again, she thought there was something most un-Vulcan about him.

Selek removed one hand from his temple, saluted, first Sarek and Amanda, then Saavik. "My apologies, Commander. I trust you understand that I have found our conversation most stimulating. My... sudden departure..." He winced again, impulsively. It was clear he had felt a stabbing pain in his chest.

"Selek!" cried Amanda. She started towards him.

He waved her off. "It is... not of consequence, Lady Amanda," he said, his voice quavering slightly. "Meditation and rest will alleviate the symptoms."

Sarek nodded. "Many at the Academy have been suffering from a viral fever of late."

"Yes," said Selek quickly. "I'm sure it is something of the kind."

"I will see you to the door," offered Sarek. In fact, he merely followed, having to move quickly to keep up with the retreating Selek.

Amanda frowned at Saavik, clearly disturbed.

"An unusually sudden onset of symptoms," observed Saavik.

"Yes," Amanda agreed. "In fact—"

Sarek re-entered alone. Amanda turned to him. "I may be just a psi-blind human, Sarek, but I'd say there's more to Selek's illness than a case of Vulcan flu. Do you know something I don't about our young friend?"

Sarek allowed himself that smallest of smiles which he reserved for her alone. "You are not psi-blind, my wife. Your psychic vision is merely... unique. I'm sure time will answer all questions that need be answered about Selek."

It had been a decade since McCoy had seen a Vulcan dawn. As much as he disliked the planet for its sterility and perfection, he had to admit the sun rises were beautiful. He'd missed very few of them during his three-month exile here after Genesis. Funny thing was, Vulcans didn't understand what he found so remarkable about the simple refractions and reflections resulting from their planet rotating on its axis to once again place a given spot in the path of Tau Ceti's radiation.

McCoy had tried to explain to them how refreshing it was, when one came from a blue-skied world, to see familiar hues of azure and violet creep into the pure, red Vulcan sky. The Vulcan atmosphere was so dry, so free of pollutants, that color variations—even clouds—weren't seen, except at dawn.

And this dawn, over Sarek and Amanda's home, was not a disappointment. He almost hated to ring the chime and go inside. Almost. Even this early, it was damnably hot outside. A dry heat it might have been, but it was staggeringly uncomfortable!

Amanda opened the door at their signal, her face erupting in a smile of welcome. McCoy's answering smile was broad and genuine. Even at almost a century, Amanda Grayson was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever laid eyes on.

"Hello Leonard," she said. Her eyes moved to Carol. "And you're Dr. Marcus. Come in, please." She stepped back to give them access. As they entered, McCoy saw Carol's muscles respond to the sudden wash of welcoming cold and knew his were doing the same. Walking into this house had always been like a dive in a pool on a summer's day.

"Let me show you your rooms—" Amanda began.

"I'm planning to stay at the Terminal Marriott," Carol protested.

"Don't be silly," said Amanda. "We have plenty of room, and it's just as comfortable here. In fact, the air conditioning is better. It adjusts to the body heat of those in the room, so that Vulcans and humans can be comfortable. It can also gradiate the temperature for you as you go outside, so the heat isn't a shock. The Marriott doesn't offer that."

Carol smiled. "Quite a house you have."

Amanda nodded. "Sarek and I designed the climate control systems together, long ago. We didn't want to be fighting over the thermostat for the rest of our lives."

"If you're sure we won't impose—"

"Carol," Amanda said levelly, "it isn't my place to tell you why you're here. Let's just say, for now, that my family will no doubt owe you far more than the hospitality of our home before all this is over." She looked to McCoy. "And Leonard knows he's always welcome."

McCoy gave a small bow and smiled.

"Lady Amanda," Carol said, her tone now businesslike, "when will I find out what the emergency is? Saavik—"

"—Saavik has a car waiting for you," Amanda finished. "You'll be brought to her."

"Well," said McCoy, lifting his bag, "let's get this stuff put away. I, for one, am dying to know what the mystery is."

Amanda made a face which said an awkward moment had been reached. "Leonard," she began. "I know this seems a little odd..."

"But Saavik's keeping secrets," he finished.

"She asked that Carol come alone, for now."

Carol's eyes widened. "Curiouser and curiouser. Well, no offense, Leonard, but I'm going to get moving. I'm dying to know, too."

Amanda led them to their rooms, then showed Carol to the waiting car. When she was gone, Amanda led McCoy back into the house, to the spacious living room which looked out on her gardens. She busied herself at the food selector while McCoy settled into a couch far too comfortable to be of Vulcan manufacture.

"I finally got a decent program for Hazelnut coffee," Amanda said as she extracted two steaming mugs. "All the others I've tried smelled wonderful but tasted like they've been left on the burner for two days."

"I don't suppose Vulcans know much about coffee," McCoy said, accepting the proffered cup.

"Actually, Sarek loves it," She returned to the selector and fetched a tray. McCoy smelled chocolate croissants and strawberries. "Many Vulcans drink it. They just haven't figured out how to make it. I think it's sort of like our ancestors and beer."

McCoy laughed. His grandfather had sworn by Irish beer, saying the locally produced stuff tasted like it had just been dipped out of the creek. It was an old argument on earth.

His smile faded as he watched Amanda negotiate the room with the silver serving tray. Her hands shook, and the weight was clearly too much for her frail arms. He jumped up, feeling a catch in his own back as he did so, and took the tray from her.

"You shouldn't overdo it," he said gently.

She looked a little embarrassed. "Yes, Doctor, I know. It's just a little hard to grow old gracefully when you haven't even reached the median age for your home planet."

Not for the first time, McCoy wondered how much it bothered Amanda to know that, when she died, Sarek would still have half his life ahead of him. She had married a man four decades older than herself. Now she was an old woman, and he was barely middle aged.

Her gentle smile returned quickly, reassuring him. Amanda Grayson didn't dwell on what she couldn't change and didn't believe in regrets. He'd known her a long time, and he knew these things well.

She settled into the armchair facing him and sipped at her coffee. McCoy, realizing how hungry he was now that food was in front of him, picked up a croissant. After a quiet few moments, during which each of them failed to meet the other's eyes, he cleared his throat too loudly and said, "Those strawberries didn't come out of any food selector. How did you get them to grow here?"

"Vulcan irrigation is the best in the Federation," she said distractedly. Then she met his eyes. "Let's stop talking about food, Leonard. You're mad at me."

"Mad? No! I—"

"Well, you should be! I despise keeping secrets. I wish I could tell you what's wrong—"

"Then you do know."

She nodded, and the pain that came into her face was heartbreaking.

"Amanda," he said quietly, "I want to help, if I can."

"I know," she sighed. "And please don't be offended. I'm not even allowed to tell Spock anything's wrong."

"He doesn't know? Isn't he here?"

She shook her head. "No. She won't call him. And... if she doesn't soon..."

Sadness radiated from her, sadness and urgency. She was worried for Saavik, for Spock; and something was going to happen, soon, that Spock might arrive too late to change. In fact, McCoy sensed, Spock might not be able to change it in any case. Something, some tragedy, was tearing out Amanda's heart. McCoy got up, crossed to her, and knelt by her side. He put a hand lightly on her shoulder.

"Amanda, I won't ask any questions; but if you're in pain, please remember that I'm your friend. If there's anything I can do—"

Amanda's shoulders convulsed suddenly, and she began to sob. "Leonard," she whispered. "I just feel so helpless!"

He raised up to enfold her in his arms, realizing as he did how small and frail she was. She buried her face in the shoulder of his jacket and cried, not moving for many minutes. He stroked her hair and blinked back tears of his own. What, he wondered, could bring such a strong woman to tears?

The door chime sounded, and Amanda pulled away from him. She reached for a tissue from the table next to her, dried her eyes and patted McCoy gently on the shoulder. "Thank you, Leonard," she said. She left to answer the door. Not knowing what else to do, McCoy followed.

She had answered the chime by the time he arrived in the foyer. A young Vulcan man was asking after Sarek. Amanda was explaining that he was in meetings all afternoon but would call when he returned home. When she realized McCoy stood behind her, she waved him forward for an introduction.

"This is Selek. He's new at the Vulcan Science Academy. Sarek is his sponsor."

McCoy, of course, knew better than to extend a hand to the young man. "Leonard McCoy," he said, nodding respectfully.

Selek raised his hand in salute. "Live long and prosper, Dr. McCoy," he said. "It is an honor to meet you."

So the boy knew who he was. It annoyed him. McCoy preferred to be anonymous, but no one who was associated with Jim Kirk had ever remained anonymous. Guilt by association, he supposed. He tried, with some discomfort, to return the Vulcan salute. He failed.

Selek spoke again to Amanda. "I also wish to extend my apologies for my unfortunate haste in departing last night."

McCoy didn't know what he was talking about, but he could tell the boy was genuinely embarrassed about something. An embarrassed Vulcan? He wondered if the universe—particularly its Vulcan residents—would ever cease to amaze him.

Amanda graciously told Selek that he had caused no offense. Her voice was so even, her smile so convincing, that surely no one could have guessed she'd been crying her eyes out only moments before.

McCoy found his gaze returning again to Selek. Something about his appearance was striking, intriguing, as if—yes. He looked familiar. McCoy must have seen him before.

"Forgive an old man's failing memory, Selek," he said, "but have we met?"

Selek's face registered mild surprise. "No, Doctor. I do not believe so. I have, naturally, heard of you."

McCoy nodded. "Just my imagination, I suppose."

But as the young man excused himself and Amanda shut the door behind him, the feeling continued to nag at him. Selek looked very familiar. He was positive they'd met before. Something about him made McCoy think of the _Enterprise_ , and Jim Kirk.

A healer dressed in bulky white robes, and who looked as if he'd been elderly when Carol was born, led her through the rock-walled corridors of the building where she'd been deposited. When he opened the door to an inner room, secluded and far from the main entrance, he bid her enter and excused himself.

Inside the room, Saavik was seated, waiting for her. Unlike the hallways without, the room had smooth walls and bright lighting. There was a surprising state-of-the-art look to the facility, considering the venerable antiquity of its surroundings. Carol could easily have imagined herself in the Federation's newest hospital, rather than at the heart of Vulcan's millennia-old traditions of mystical discipline.

The technology about her was not nearly so surprising as Saavik herself. She didn't look any older than she had the last time Carol had seen her—four years ago, aboard _Enterprise_. And then she hadn't looked any older than she had when they'd first met, at Regula I. Now she looked haggard, tired and drawn. It was unusual for a Vulcan. They could go days without sleep and not feel the effects. Well, then, Saavik must have gone months.

She stood. "Dr. Marcus—"

"Carol, Saavik. Please call me Carol."

Saavik pulled a plain chair from behind a lab counter nearby and set it facing her own. She gestured for Carol to be seated. "Carol. I apologize for disturbing you. If there were any other avenue open to me, please believe I—"

Carol interrupted ."Saavik, what's wrong?"

Saavik sat. She was forcing herself to relax. "I need your help," she said slowly.

"Of course—anything!"

"Do not pledge yourself lightly, Doctor. I am asking much—especially considering I was partially responsible for the death of your son—"

Carol's jaw dropped. "What?! My god, Saavik, have you really been carrying that baggage around all these years? You didn't kill David! A renegade Klingon did!"

Saavik's eyes dropped. Her facial expression did not betray her pain, but Carol knew it was there. "He was trying to save me. They were going to kill me. I should have—" She stopped, still not meeting Carol's gaze.

Not sure what to say to a Vulcan feeling such guilt, Carol repeated some of the conclusions she'd come to long ago. They'd brought her peace. "He loved you, Saavik. He died for that love. I miss David dreadfully—especially now! But I can't hate the woman I know he loved. I'm just grateful someone who loved him could be with him when he... died."

At least now Saavik looked up. Her voice still was riddled with discomfort. "I knew you didn't want David to join Starfleet. I assumed, since he was attached _to Grissom_ when he died, you felt Starfleet took him away from you, that I took him—"

Carol held up a hand and said firmly, "Stop! I have only one complaint about your behavior since you met my son."

"What is that?"

"You never came to see me. I would have liked to have gotten to know you better, Saavik." Indeed, she'd really expected Saavik to come to her after David's death. Even at the funeral, though, she'd kept a respectful distance. When they'd seen each other once or twice in later years, Saavik had been the picture of a respectful officer, dealing with a noted scientist and the woman her commanding officer intended to marry. Now, at least, Carol knew why she'd been avoided.

"That possibility had not occurred to me," said Saavik. "However, if you accept my request, you will have that chance, Carol." She stopped a moment, collecting herself. Then she went on, her voice stronger. "I stayed away to spare you painful memories. Painful revelations." She focused a hard gaze on Carol . "I can spare you no longer."

The heart of the matter had been reached, and Saavik was hesitating. Carol suddenly felt like a patient, about to be told she had contracted xenopolycythemia. Damn it, what was going on here? "Saavik," Carol cried in frustration, "for god's sake—!"

"I am sorry. It is difficult to find the words." She stood and stepped toward another door, not the one Carol had come through, but one which must have led to an inner chamber. "Come with me," said Saavik. She keyed a sequence on the pad beside the door, and it slid open. Carol deduced that access to this room was restricted. On Vulcan, that was almost unheard of.

The room Saavik led her into was small, the light subdued. It looked like any other room in a hospital. There was a bed—unoccupied. There was life support equipment, some familiar to her, some not. Cables and tubes connected the pumps and monitors to a coffin-sized tank which was oriented parallel to the bed. Its outer shell was silvery and opaque, but the patient monitors showed clearly that something was within, its heart pumping, its lungs breathing, albeit weakly.

Saavik approached the tank and placed both hands on its surface. Her fingers stroked gently, nervously. Whatever lay within was important to her. Her Vulcan discipline could not hide the clear signs of affection. Who—? Carol felt suddenly sick. Gods, she thought, the only person she's that close to is Spock, and I haven't seen him here!

"I would have paid any price to spare you pain, Carol; but there was one sacrifice I could not make." She reached toward the end of the tank, pressed a key on a control pad, and the opacity of the outer shell faded away. The wall became clear, and Carol saw the body, floating in some liquid, like a fetus in amniotic fluid.

This was no fetus, though it was small. The frail, naked body was that of a child, a boy. His ears were delicately formed and pointed, like Saavik's. His limbs were thin, the muscles severely underdeveloped, as was natural for a patient on life support.

"No matter what the cost," Saavik went on, "I could not allow my son to die."

"Your son... ?" Carol murmured, too shocked to phrase a coherent sentence. It was then that she studied, really studied, the little boy's head—his face, his chin, his hair...

Tears came to Carol's eyes as it registered that the hair, floating gracefully in the life-sustaining fluid, was a very familiar shade of gold.

She barely heard Saavik say, "Only you possess the knowledge which may stabilize him. Only you have even a remote chance of saving his life."

"Saavik," she whispered, her voice catching, "...why did you think that telling me this would hurt me?"

But she already knew the answer. It was the only one which could make any possible sense. "Because you have lost so many of your family," explained Saavik. "I thought it best, given his frail condition, that you not know that my son is also a part of your family"

Saavik's fingers spread out against the surface of the tank walls, the muscles tightening to their limits. "His name is Preston Kirk Marcus. He is your grandson."


	5. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saavik relates the odd circumstances of Preston's birth. Spock hitches a ride aboard the Excelsior. Sarek's protege, Selek, turns out to be more than he seems.

Saavik looked directly in front of her and spoke in measured, dispassionate tones, as though she were lecturing on factoring polynomials. "The child's name is Preston Kirk Marcus. Following the traditions of earth humans, I have given him the surname of his grandmother, and one of his biological fathers. While most races follow the more traditional habit of assigning maternal surnames, I have none to bestow.

"His parentage includes myself. I am his biological mother. He gestated over the relatively normal human period of nine months, two days, and seventeen point eight two hours. An average Vulcan fetus gestates for a longer period of approximately forty-five standard weeks, to allow for additional brain development. Preston is part human, which accelerated his development.

"Preston has two biological fathers, and thus represents the first known fetus to have more than two primary ancestors without benefit of genetic engineering. Exactly which chromosomes came from myself, from David Marcus, his human father, and from Captain Spock, his Vulcan father, we have not determined. It is possible we never shall determine the exact combinations of characteristics. The analysis is complex and may not be necessary to his continued health.

"Suffice it to say that he has Vulcan DNA from my unidentified parent and from Ambassador Sarek, Spock's father. He has human DNA from James T. Kirk and Carol Marcus, the parents of David Marcus, and from Amanda Grayson, Spock's mother. Finally, he has Romulan DNA, again from my unidentified parent. Essentially, he is half human and half Vulcanoid.

"The exact process of Preston's unusual conception may be of interest to researchers, if his existence is ever made known outside of his immediate family and physicians." She took a breath, the only concession made to any discomfort she might be feeling and continued.

"David Marcus, a participant in the Genesis Project of 2285, was my sexual partner during the last weeks of his life. He and I were sent aboard USS _Grissom_ to study the Genesis Planet, accidentally created by the detonation of a prototype Genesis device. We beamed down to the surface on Stardate 8201.5. Seven point two eight hours before that beamdown, Dr. Marcus and I engaged in sexual intercourse."

Carol Marcus reached forward and pressed the pause key on the viewing station control board. She wondered exactly what it was she was feeling. It wasn't surprise. David had told her himself that he and Saavik were lovers. If he hadn't, it still would have been obvious. Both she and Jim had seen them together often and approved of their son's choice. It wasn't anger. She genuinely liked Saavik and had been completely honest when she'd told her she was glad David had not died alone.

It was, perhaps, the slightest bit of humor she felt, and a little sadness, too. Saavik had sat and faced the camera so bravely when she'd recorded this document, only days after Preston's birth. She hedged not at all, held out on nothing. Carol knew that was partly because she felt she wasn't entitled to secrecy. Deep down, no matter how civilized and competent and respected Saavik became, she would always feel inferior to all those around her. Damn the Romulans, anyway! How could they bring a child into the universe as an act of cruelty, then tell it it wasn't fit to live?

She cursed that "unidentified Romulan parent," of Saavik's. Carol did not hold with beliefs in eternal damnation, but she hoped there might be a special place in hell for a parent who could reject and belittle such a beautiful child when Carol's own child had been cut out of her life so tragically.

And so, much as she might laugh at Saavik's clinical description of her love affair, she couldn't help feeling a twinge of regret. Even a Vulcan should show a little discomfort when revealing her secrets to unidentified viewers. Even a halfbreed refuge should feel that much pride.

Taking a breath, she restarted the program. Saavik's image returned to life and began to speak.

"Only hours after our arrival on Genesis, Spock's regenerated body, aging unnaturally due to the Genesis effect, reached puberty. I will not describe the phenomenon of Spock's regeneration herein. Please consult the separate file on that subject in this archive. I will re-emphasize one point: Vulcan males, at the onset of pon far, are driven by such intense hormonal surges that they must physically and mentally join with a female. If they do not, or cannot, the consequence is always death.

"Spock entered pon far, albeit an abbreviated form of it. As the only Vulcan female available to him, it was left to me to guide him through the process of mating. This involved my joining with his mind and engaging in sexual intercourse with him.

"It is relevant, at this point, to say that I practice biocontrol techniques to avoid conception. Were it not for the unusual nature of the Genesis effect, neither David Marcus nor Spock could have impregnated me. As it happened, however, the process which converted dead matter into a living matrix, as programmed by the Genesis team, was not fully functional. Rather than ending at its normal time to allow the planet created to begin to grow and age at a normal pace, its effects continued at a weakened level, affecting all living matter within its area of influence.

"Spock's dead body, deposited on the surface, was regenerated and grew to adulthood at a rapid rate. David Marcus's sperm cells, dying, but still within my body, were rejuvenated, resurrected, allowing them to participate in the creation of a fetus which was to follow. My own metabolism was affected to the extent that my biocontrol techniques did not prevent conception.

"Essentially, one of my ova, caught up in the Genesis effect, was combined at random with the nearby available genetic material—that of Spock and David Marcus, to create a life form which could not, otherwise, have existed."

She stopped, took a breath, and continued. Her eyes never wavered from their focus on the camera lens. "Only time will tell if the unstable nature of the Genesis process will affect Preston's natural development. It is possible that, like Spock, he is now free of its influence. It is equally possible that the Genesis matrix's unfortunate tendency to decay into protomatter may enter into play as he ages. If it does, it may become necessary to attempt to remove the protomatter from Preston's genes and, essentially, genetically re-engineer him into a stable life form."

"That technology is currently well beyond the reach of Federation medicine. This is Lt. Saavik, recording on Stardate 8425.9. End Report."

The screen faded to black, and Carol sat back in her chair. Saavik had suggested she review all the documents relating to Preston's case, as they would explain the situation better than she could alone. Well, Carol reflected, the situation was now explained to her: her grandson was a freak of nature—no, of anti-nature. He was created, accidentally, by an experiment gone totally wrong. To save him, she would have to make that experiment—an experiment she'd abandoned ten years ago, when it had almost started an interstellar war—go totally right.

The grandmother in her caused her to stand, straighten her clothes, and begin mentally ticking off a list of the steps to be taken next. The scientist in her shook her head and sighed that little Preston didn't have a prayer.

The grandmother ignored the scientist. In fact, Carol fancied, she just barely restrained herself from decking the smug, cold-hearted bitch. She wanted to chuckle at the image of her two personas beating the crap out of each other, but nothing seemed funny just now.

In his room at the Vulcan Science Academy dormitory, the man who called himself Selek sat before his terminal and drummed his fingers as the typical waiting period for a sub-space call ticked by. Finally, the blue "Please Wait" screen faded and pixilated into an image of Admiral Harry Morrow, seated in his office on earth.

Morrow nodded at Selek. "You're a little late today."

"I'm... not feeling well."

"Nothing serious, I hope?" Morrow asked with genuine concern.

"I'm sure it's just a virus."

"Okay. What have you found out?"

Selek shook his head. "Nothing. At least, nothing relevant. I haven't even been able to find any publicly declared Separatists, much less closet ones."

Morrow nodded. "That's as we expected. Remember, Vulcan Separatism is not a politically popular belief. Even in a society that embraces IDIC, they're open to a certain degree of ridicule. After all, a philosophy that called for Vulcan racial purity and isolationism is about as anti-diversity as you can get."

"Maybe," agreed Selek. "I've had no trouble gaining access to the acolytes at Mt. Seleya. They've bought my story about comparing proto-Vulcan artifacts from other worlds with those house at the Temple. I've had several leading conversations with them—but I haven't turned up a thing."

"You've been on the lookout for suspicious visitors? Anyone who might be linked to the Separatists?"

"I've looked," said Selek, "but the only visitor since I got here has been Commander Saavik."

Morrow straightened in his chair and suddenly looked very interested. "Saavik? Was she alone?"

Surprised that he'd be interested, Selek shrugged. "Amanda was with her at the temple; but she came to Vulcan alone, if that's what you mean. You see what I mean about us barking up the wrong tree. I don't think those reports about Seleya being a center of Separatist activity should be given any credence. Someone had a screw loose when they reported that one."

"Even so," said Morrow with his customary ironic roll of eyes, "let's hang on a little longer. This is too important for us to get sloppy. Especially keep an eye on Saavik."

"Why?" Selek demanded. "A half-Romulan is the last person who's gonna become a Separatist, Admiral."

"Just do it."

"Okay, but I don't think this cover will last much longer. Dr. McCoy was at Sarek's house this morning, and I think he recognized me for a—"

"McCoy!" interrupted Morrow. "Leonard McCoy is on Vulcan?"

"Yes. He's an old friend of Sarek's family. Why shouldn't he be here?"

Morrow just stroked his chin and said, "Interesting."

"It won't be interesting if Spock shows up," said Selek. "He'll see through me for sure."

"Don't worry. Spock is light years away, and not coming to Vulcan any time soon. Take care. Morrow out."

The screen went blank. Selek frowned at it. Why had Morrow shown so little interest in the report until McCoy and Saavik had been mentioned? It was as if they were the focus of Selek's mission here, not the Separatists. Not for the first time, he wondered just how much the Admiral wasn't telling him.

Captain Hikaru Sulu came out of the lift, gazed right, then left, then broke into a jog. No doubt the majority of the crew were in the theater, enjoying the third night of the Shakespeare Festival. That explained the empty corridors, for which Sulu was infinitely grateful. It had been the kind of disruptive day that had kept him completely away from the _Excelsior_ 's gymnasium, and his body was beginning to protest missing its daily fix of endorphins from a morning workout.

And he certainly didn't want the crew to see their dignified Captain, in Class A uniform, jogging in the corridors. It would be most unseemly. Ironically, it was the very call which pulled him out of bed at 0500 this morning—thus pre-empting his visit to the gym—which now allowed him an excuse to leave the bridge. A request for transport, carrying diplomatic priority, had diverted them to Khitomer to collect passengers. Neither the requesting diplomat, nor the high-priority passengers had been identified. Certainly, one of Starfleet's two largest and fastest vessels wasn't pulled off the line for anyone but a VIP.

And a VIP deserved to have the Captain in the transporter room when he beamed aboard. Sulu noted that he'd passed deck twelve's conference room, meaning the transporter room was exactly fifty meters ahead. He glanced at his chronometer and made himself a promise to have an extra glass of sake tonight if he could clear the distance in under six seconds. He registered the time, broke into a sprint—

— and ran headlong into his first officer, coming out of an intersecting passage.

Janice Rand relaxed into the fall and neatly avoided bashing her head into the bulkhead. She accepted Sulu's hand, pulled herself up and dusted off. Then, for good measure, she backhanded her Captain across the sternum.

"Couldn't you just use the gym like everyone else?" Rand demanded.

Sulu laughed a rich, deep laugh. "Consider it a spot-inspection to see how alert you are. You passed, by the way."

"Smart ass," muttered Rand.

"Now what would the crew say if they heard their exec talk to me that way?" Sulu asked.

"They don't know what you're really like," Rand grinned.

Sulu laughed again. Janice Rand kept him humble. She was a reminder that he'd once been a young junior officer like most of his crew—almost a human being, even.

"I was on my way to meet you in the transporter room," she said, resuming her course toward the doorway still forty meters ahead.

Together, they walked at the respectable pace senior officers should, and entered the room side by side. The technician nodded to them, and Sulu noticed he looked a little anxious. Turning at a glimpse of movement from the pad, Sulu saw the reason why. Their mysterious passenger had already beamed aboard, and the young ensign manning the controls was in awe.

Looking appropriately regal in the flowing black robes customarily worn by those in his new occupation, Spock stepped down from the pad and held up a hand in salute to his two former shipmates.

Sulu returned the salute. "Welcome aboard, Captain—or should I say 'Ambassador?'"

"My appointment is not yet final, Captain Sulu. Such a designation would be inaccurate. You may use my rank, although I am retired. I would also be quite agreeable to your referring to me simply as 'Spock.' We are, after all, equal in rank."

Sulu shook his head. "If I live to be two-hundred, Spock, I'll never be your equal. Sorry we weren't here when you beamed up." He looked sidelong at Janice. "I ran into a little trouble. What can we do for you?"

"I require transport to Vulcan as soon as possible. I hope you will forgive my presumption in interrupting your mission, but you did have the fastest ship available."

"It's an honor to have you aboard," Sulu assured him. "May I ask—?"

"There is an illness in my family," said Spock. "My father has requested my immediate return. The situation, he says, is critical."

Sulu nodded his understanding. No other Ambassador would have had the nerve to ask _Excelsior_ to ferry him home to visit a sick relative, and Sulu wouldn't have sat still for it if one had. This was Spock, though; and the sick relative was, no doubt, Lady Amanda. He wouldn't have dreamed of refusing.

Janice, outmaneuvering Sulu, hefted Spock's travel bag—ignoring the Vulcan's protests. Sulu accompanied them into the corridor. As they walked, she said to Spock, "When Saavik asked for a leave on Vulcan, we thought you were already there."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Commander Saavik is on leave?"

"You didn't know?" asked Sulu cautiously.

Spock's discomfort would not have been evident to others, but these were old friends, accustomed to reading him. "I have... not heard a great deal from Saavik recently."

Janice said quickly, "She's—she's been very busy." It was a nice thought, to rush to the defense of her subordinate and try and save her old friend's feelings. The attempt fell flat. It was clear that Spock knew of a deeper motivation on Saavik's part.

They walked silently, for a moment, all three uncomfortable. Janice finally asked, "Spock, is there anything we can do?"

Spock shook his head slightly. "I shall spend the voyage primarily in meditation, however..."

"Yes?" asked Sulu, eager to do something—anything—to be of help.

"Have either of you, by chance, learned to play chess in the years we've been apart?"

Janice forced a smile. "Don't let Dartagnan here near a chess board—he'll run it through." Sulu thought the little bit of name-calling at his expense a nice touch. It was Spock who'd first assigned the sarcastic nickname to Sulu thirty years ago. "I'm afraid I'm a poker woman, myself," she went on. "I think I know just the person, though—a Vulcan."

"Good thinking, Janice," said Sulu.

"Good officer Tuvok," she continued. "Brews a helluva cup of tea."

"Saavik?"

The voice called to her from out of the shadows. It was at once familiar and alien, welcome, and frightening. "I've been waiting for you, Saavik," it called. "You remember me, don't you?"

She tried to see where it came from, but all was darkness. Even the eyes which could see in what humans would call pitch darkness could make out no form, no face, except... Not far away, there was a shadowy form, moving slowly. It was moving toward her.

"I don't remember you," she said. "Who are you?"

"I've waited for you, my love," said the voice desperately. "Please try to remember. It's been a long time, but the gift... "

"What gift?"

"Don't you remember the gift I left you? When I went away?"

What was it talking about? What gift? Whose voice called to her? She felt she should know it. For an instant, she was sure that she did know it, that she'd heard it many times before. Then the sensation passed, and she was left wondering.

"Who are you?" she demanded of the shadows. "Tell me your name!"

The shadowy form moved closer still. She could hear its breathing, sense the subtle disturbances in air currents as it came closer; but she could not feel its mind. A hand reached out toward her, grasping, reaching.

"Take my hand!" hissed the voice. "Before it's too late, Saavik, please! Come to me!"

"Who—?" she blurted again, but the hand had grasped her shoulder. Its fingers dug into her naked flesh and would not let go. The touch was cold, icy cold, like the touch of death, or...

...or the touch of another, long ago.

...like lying in the shade on a hot summer's day.

"Saavik," implored the voice. "Saavik..."

"Commander Saavik?"

She opened her eyes. She'd been dreaming. There was, indeed, a hand on her shoulder. Its touch was not icy cold, as she'd dreamed, but cool enough against the skin not covered by the loose tunic she wore.

She inhaled deeply, invoked her biocontrols to regulate her breathing. She looked to the person who'd wakened her. It was Selek. His expression, though guarded, showed concern.

"I did not mean to disturb your rest, but you called out—"

"I was having a troubling dream," she explained. "I am prone to them. My Romulan heritage, Mr. Spock often said." It registered only a moment later that she'd referred to him as "Mr. Spock," as she'd always done as a child.

"Are you all right? Do you need assistance?"

"No," she said quickly, then added, "Thank you. It is nothing to be concerned about." She took a moment to study him. "What brings you here?"

"My research. Many of the artifacts we catalogued when I was travelling with my parents are believed to be proto-Vulcan in origin. Mt. Seleya has an excellent collection of artifacts of our pre-Reform history. I am collecting data for a comparative paper."

She nodded. "I am sorry to take you from your work."

"I am not displeased that I found you here. I... would appreciate the opportunity to further our acquaintance."

"Do you believe I am a useful contact for your research?" she asked, knowing she could not possibly be. He was being indirect, however, in communicating. She was used to talking to humans in this way and found herself slipping into that pattern of conversation. It was a skill she felt she'd developed well over the last decade.

"I simply meant that we have much in common. We are both orphans."

"So we are," she agreed.

"We have both been sponsored by the same family. We both grew up away from Vulcan."

She almost smiled. "I grew up a good deal farther away—from Vulcan and from any semblance of civilization."

He inclined his head slowly, acknowledging. "I am glad to be aware of your history. I hope you will find my attitude regarding it is not as... parochial... as some Vulcans'."

"I appreciate that."

"I merely meant to point out that we are both distanced from others by our unique experiences."

"That is a fair statement," she said.

"Are you bonded?" he asked suddenly.

The question surprised her. True, she had entertained thoughts that Selek might be evaluating her as a potential mate, but she had dismissed them. There were more fitting choices for him. This question established a clear interest on his part, an intent to at least discuss marriage. Vulcans did not "date," as humans did. They studied, they evaluated, and they made binding choices.

"I am not bonded," she said quietly. "It... has never seemed appropriate, given my situation."

"I... did not mean to be too forward," he said. "I... " He took a deep breath. "Forgive me. I am not accustomed to our people's ways of... handling these matters. I would appreciate the chance to become... more closely acquainted."

This exchange, Saavik realized, was what Captain Kirk would have called "a pickup." Selek was doing it very badly, she thought. Then she realized she'd never really been involved in a pickup before. Who was she to judge?

She was a Vulcan. And Vulcans didn't do this kind of thing.

"Are you bonded?" she asked, nonetheless.

He looked down momentarily. "I was. She is dead."

"That is unfortunate." She didn't know what else to say, for the pain he felt in connection with his lost bondmate was apparent. Truly, it should not have been. A Vulcan widower would not openly grieve, nor would he approach Saavik in this way. He would inform her of his situation, and dispassionately suggest that they discuss the potential benefits of a bond between the two of them.

Was that the approach she preferred?

She put the thoughts out of her mind. Right now, she preferred no approach at all. If Preston could be saved, she would be very busy for some time to come. If he died... She suddenly realized that her mental picture of her future life did not include that very real possibility. If Preston died, she did not know what she would do.

What was she to say to Selek? She wanted to tell him that now wasn't the time, but... what? She was struck with the impulse not to drive him away, an irrational, emotional impulse. A part of her did not want to close the door on this opportunity. This was such a confusing time, and she hadn't even considered such feelings for so long, that she feared she didn't know how to be attracted to another person any longer.

Her time with David had been so long ago.

The door slid open, and Carol Marcus came into the room at a stride. She noticed Selek, still kneeling by Saavik's chair, and asked, "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Saavik immediately stood. "No. Selek merely came in to wake me. I was having a dream—"

"At least you were trying to rest," said Carol. She turned to Selek. "She hasn't slept for forty-eight hours. We haven't met. I'm Carol Marcus."

Selek introduced himself, then Saavik turned to him. "I don't wish to keep you from your research any longer. Dr. Marcus and I are working on a project of our own and must continue."

"Of course."

After he left, Carol looked pointedly at Saavik. Though the emotional toll of Preston's condition was showing on her as well, she said, "He's cute. Friend of yours?"

"I barely know him," Saavik said coolly.

"Good thing he was here to wake you up, though," said Carol, watching her closely. "Was it a bad dream?"

Saavik tried to ignore the other woman's intense scrutiny. "It was... unnerving. I felt another mind, trying to contact mine. I must have cried out in my sleep. Selek woke me." She ended the explanation there, not wanting to discuss it any further just now. Remembering awakening to Selek's touch, however, caused one nagging question to resurface.

Why was a Vulcan's touch so cold?


	6. Interlude 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saavik dreams of another life.

It was too unusual to have occurred naturally. Planet KXP1181 was class-M, with a fully-developed biosphere, wildlife, game, an abundant variety of trees and edible plants... but no higher life forms. It didn't make sense. If a world had animal life, and thus the right conditions for continuing evolution, intelligence should develop.

So far as they could tell, though, it hadn't. They'd found a planet ripe for colonization, with little or no terraforming required, and immediately useful to the _Enterprise_ crew for rest and relaxation.

Saavik acknowledged Kirk's order that the landing party was now on shore leave for the duration of the next duty shift, and snapped her communicator shut. Then, lifting her tricorder, she continued with the readings she'd been taking on the DNA structure of a native, fruit-bearing tree.

Next to her, Terry Metcalfe exclaimed in protest. "What the hell are you doing?"

She looked up and said casually, "Continuing my analysis of—"

"The Admiral said to take shore leave! That means quit working."

She considered this. "Not precisely. It means that we are free to choose whatever activity suits our taste while on this planet."

"And you want to continue taking readings on native flora?"

She turned back to her tricorder, ignoring the fact that he had sprawled on the ground and was watching her closely. "I do."

Actually, she would have preferred to remain on the ship, reading. She was quite engrossed in her study of human behavior, as related in their culture's fiction. Spock had told her often, however, that it was best to take some shore leave with the human crew, lest she become the object of uninvited gossip, resentment, and, worst of all, the Chief Medical Officer's concern.

If she were in her quarters, however, Terry Metcalfe would not be watching her every move, and she wouldn't feel so obligated to stop and talk to him. It wasn't that she disliked talking to Terry. That would have been illogical. He was an intelligent human, with valuable insights on the nature of his people. In fact, she had looked forward to their hours on the bridge, working side by side... until Kruge had attacked.

The mind meld with Terry troubled her, more than he cared to admit. It had been the only practical solution to a problem at the time, but now she illogically wished it hadn't happened. She wished she hadn't learned what she'd learned in his mind.

Now she knew: Terry was in love with her.

She had known enough about human behavior to know that Terry found her attractive. That hardly made her unusual. He was a young human male, and thus, by his nature, would find many females her age attractive. She had not known that his feelings for her extended beyond the realm of causal flirtation.

Saavik had not known how to react, then—three months ago—or now. She wasn't sure what love was, was still trying to find out. She knew Vulcans could feel love, although they did not express it openly. She believed she loved David Marcus, even though he was human and she was trying to be a proper Vulcan. David made her feel accepted, excited, appreciated...

And now, here was another human, telling her he had the same feelings for her. She had told Terry she was on unfamiliar ground, that she didn't know if she was ready to explore any possible relationships. She'd told him about David. He said he understood. That puzzled her. She didn't understand.

And, as they'd continued to work side by side on the bridge, as he'd been sure to include her, if she was willing, in activities on shore leave and off-duty, as he'd joined the interested crowd that seemed so fascinated by her regular chess games with the Admiral, she began to be more confused. She loved David because she found him sexually attractive. She had to admit that she found Terry Metcalfe so, as well. She loved that David accepted her, a halfbreed. Terry did the same. She would not have felt nearly as much a part of the crew of the _Enterprise_ without his efforts. She loved David because he was admirable—courageous, intelligent, committed. Was Terry Metcalfe any different? In personality, perhaps.

These thoughts made her wonder if she could return Terry's feelings. If so, what was she to do—or not do—about David? These thoughts brought an atmosphere of complication to her life. Vulcan philosophy taught that emotion should be limited and controlled to avoid these very complications. They distracted an individual, preventing her from focusing on the work at hand.

For three months, she'd avoided those complications. She'd buried herself in work and Vulcan discipline. She'd even considered applying for Kolinahr training when this tour of duty was up. She was sure that, in time, denying her feelings would become easier.

It hadn't. The farther she distanced herself from Terry Metcalfe, the more she wanted to be near him. And she was beginning to wonder what point there was to a life spent denying oneself the approval and affection of the few who offered it.

He was still watching her. "Is that really your definition of fun?"

"Fun is not a quantifiable commodity," Saavik replied. "This work is useful."

"Is it relaxing?"

She had to consider that. "No," she admitted. "It is not. Not when you are staring at me."

He stood, came over and positioned himself in front of her, his arms crossed. "When I am staring at you, or when anyone is staring at you?"

"I... have not gathered data for a comparative study."

"No one else stares at you."

"That is what I said."

"So, the galaxy's full of idiots—or everyone would stare at you. The point remains: Admiral Kirk ordered us to relax. You're not relaxing."

"Because you are staring at me."

"Put down the tricorder and maybe I'll stop."

"That is... extortion."

"Guilty as charged. Gonna report me for harassment?"

"Legally, I could."

"It would be worth it."

"Starfleet would take disciplinary action against you. You could be removed from your post. What compensation causes you to say, 'it would be worth it?'"

"The fact that you've talked to me more in the last minute than you have for the past few weeks," he said pointedly.

A human, she knew, would have told him that he was mistaken, that her intent had never been to ignore him. Humans lied so easily. Saavik couldn't take such an easy out. Spock would not have tolerated it.

Even a Vulcan might have played word games with him, to avoid admitting the truth. She could claim that he had no empirical data to support his hypothesis that she'd spoken a higher number of words today than her cumulative total in the last given number of weeks.

Both tactics would be dishonest on her part. She finally responded with the truth, unaltered. "I have been attempting to avoid emotional entanglements. Vulcans do not believe in complicating their lives by putting unnecessary effort into relationships, as humans do."

His smile faded. "Saavik, I didn't mean to... pressure you. I—no, that's not true. If I didn't mean to pressure you I wouldn't be talking to you about this now. I mean... I don't know what the hell I mean. I just want us to be friends, and I'm afraid I've screwed that up."

"'Screwed it up?' No. You have... given me cause to be uncertain."

"Uncertain about what?"

"My feelings... toward you, toward David."

"You know your feelings toward David."

"I believed that I did."

"Believed?"

She stopped and carefully seated herself on the soft grass at their feet. He joined her. "Vulcans," she said slowly, "do not choose a mate out of love, but out of logic. Still, Vulcans join minds in a bond of marriage only with one person. Humans share this principle of monogamy, do they not?"

He rolled his eyes. "We've tried a little of everything. We have contract marriages, group marriages, line marriages—"

"But it seems to be a human tendency to gravitate toward only one life partner, eventually."

"That seems to be a constant in intelligent races, yes," he agreed.

"Then, is it not illogical to allow oneself to... fall in love... with two individuals?"

"Hopelessly illogical," he agreed.

"Then why did you continue to pursue me while maintaining a relationship with Commander Teller?"

He inhaled sharply, smiling in embarrassment. "Because... it's not easy to say no to Angela?" When she did not respond, he continued, more seriously, "I... like Angela. She's a wonderful person. We've had... a relationship."

"And you and I have not," Saavik reminded him.

"No. But I'm not in love with Angela. I wasn't before. We were just... enjoying ourselves."

"By having sexual intercourse?"

He blushed. "Um... yes."

"Does it embarrass you to say so?"

He nodded slowly. "To you, yes."

"Why? Do you believe I would be jealous?"

"I... I don't know. It just seems like... bad manners."

"I was taught that it was good manners to inform a prospective partner of one's sexual history."

He looked at her for a long moment, then asked quietly, "Do you consider yourself... a prospective partner?"

"Yes," she said evenly.

"But—" he sputtered, "but what about David?"

"I do not believe he aspires to be your sexual partner. I suppose I might ask—"

"That's not what I meant! You just said you were... in love with David, that you wouldn't allow yourself to fall in love with two people."

"No. I said it would be illogical. That is why I have been... avoiding you. I did not wish to... I was afraid I would..." She broke off, not knowing what, exactly, she wanted to say. She met his eyes. "You have confused me," she said firmly. "Because I find that... I do not wish to avoid you. Even though, in your presence, I cannot reason logically about my relationship with David."

"Why not?"

"Because I believe I am in love with you."

His eyes registered a very human disbelief, a very human uncertainty. His arms, however, reached out for her, pulling her to him. His lips met hers as he kissed her passionately.

When he pulled back, breathing raggedly, still holding her shoulders, she said, "Interesting."

His eyes widened. "What?!"

"You intended a display of deep emotion and profound sexual arousal?"

His face sank, and he coughed out a laugh mixed with surprise, disappointment and anger. "Yeah... something like that."

She nodded. "How very human."

He dropped his hands to his sides and started to move away. "Well if you didn't like it—" She quickly caught his shoulder with one hand, and took one of his free hands in the other. He settled back down in front of her, a questioning look on his face. She held his wrist, and brought her hand from his shoulder to gently caress his fingers with her own. The touch of flesh on flesh allowed their minds to brush each other, their thoughts to intermingle. She felt his surprise, his fear, his love, his arousal...

And she felt her own arousal growing.

"This is the Vulcan way," she whispered. Locking her fingers around his, she reached out and caressed his neck, pulling him towards her. Overwhelmed by his emotions, he allowed her to guide the beginnings of their mental and physical joining.

His communicator bleeped. Kirk's voice, demanding, agitated, blared out of the small speaker. The planet had a few surprises in store for them. The Admiral's party had found intelligent natives after all, and they were most definitely not friendly.

Shore Leave was over.

Saavik brought herself out of her meditative trance and asked the computer for the correct time. It was odd, she thought, that for the past few days she'd sunk so deeply into the trance state that her internal clock—usually quite accurate—lost track of time. It was odd, also, that she could not remember dreaming, although she was sure she had. Most Vulcans dreamed during the trance and found their dreams insightful and instructive. This was usually the way with her as well.

But she had no memory of what she'd experienced today, only, for some reason, a lingering sense of frustration.

Perhaps, when Preston was stable, she would have an opportunity to discuss this problem with a healer. She was certain some part of her mind had been active during the trance and could not help being curious what had been going through it.


	7. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock arrives on Vulcan. Sarek discovers that Selek is gravely ill.

Chapter Four

"Saavik, for god's sake, I can't do this alone!"

Saavik and Carol were seated in Preston's hospital room, Saavik in the chair by his life support tank, Carol on the empty bed. Saavik remembered when Preston had slept in that bed, early on. That had been before he had matured, before the instability that was his genetic and biological heritage had become pronounced. He'd always been on life support, of course. He'd never opened his eyes, never cried. He'd been born comatose and remained that way to this day. Had it not been for the life support equipment, he would have died long ago, different systems of his body decaying at different rates, until one critical system shut down and killed him. Eventually, the only choice had been to keep him in stasis, while research continued to attempt to purify his DNA and correct his condition.

Now that research had ended in failure, and Preston was running out of time. The healers had summoned Saavik here to accept Preston's Katra and release him. She knew that, although they'd never said it. She wasn't willing to give up that easily.

Carol was looking imploringly at her. "I conceived the Genesis process, that's true. I'm the biologist who envisioned how the matrices would develop. As the project administrator, I read all the reports; but I'm not all there was to Genesis, and I'm not a medical doctor. I can only begin to understand the helices David designed and adapted, let alone the equations Del and Vance bounced around."

"You have access to all project records," said Saavik.

"True. And I might be able to make something of them... given years. If I'd known all along—"

Guilt stabbed at Saavik. Carol was right. If she'd known of Preston from the time of his birth, she might have developed a cure long ago. If Saavik had not been so determined to spare Carol pain... She also had to be frank with herself. She had expected Carol to hate her, after David's death, and she had not wanted to face that hatred. Further, she had truly been afraid that Carol would take one look at this monster child she had born and shrink away in revulsion. Carol was human, after all, and even Vulcans were not charitable to halfbreeds. Saavik knew that from personal experience.

Carol leaned toward her and did her best to smile. "I'm not blaming you, Saavik. Please understand that. What's done can't be undone, and I'm getting to be a pro at accepting the hardships of life." She sighed, stood, and arched her back. That done, she began to pace in front of Saavik. "We have to focus on how best to handle the situation from this point on."

"I agree."

Carol turned and locked eyes with her. "Then agree that Preston is dying. The stasis equipment can't stop the metabolic processes entirely, it can only slow them down. The accelerated aging he's subject to is going to kill him within weeks. We just can't find a cure that quickly. We need someone who understands human and Vulcan physiology well enough to keep him stable so that we have the time to isolate the protomatter in his DNA and filter it out. The most qualified physician in the galaxy is sitting under our noses. Let's bring him in on this case."

Saavik stood and peered through the smooth casing that isolated her son from the outside world. She looked at his face, seeing her own features there, as well as David's... and Spock's. "Carol, you know I have no question regarding Dr. McCoy's abilities. He is an excellent physician. If this were simply a matter of Preston needing to be cured, I would have informed him immediately. Things are not that simple, however. Preston is not just a sick child—he's a product of Genesis."

Carol nodded. "And Genesis scared the bejeezus out of the Federation and the Klingons. I know. The Federation financed the development of a process to convert dead matter into a living planet. Then, when they got what they paid for, they ran screaming."

"Their behavior is irrational," Saavik agreed. "Therefore it is all the more dangerous. If any government knew that Preston existed, his very life would be in danger. That is why his existence has been kept secret all his life. Dr. McCoy is a Starfleet officer—"

Carol's tone showed she was beginning to get angry. "Leonard McCoy was a physician a helluva long time before he joined Starfleet, Saavik. Didn't you work with him long enough to know that he would never put politics ahead of a patient's health and safety?"

"I did," said Saavik quietly. "I would trust Dr. McCoy with my life." She looked again into the tank. "But this is my son... and David's."

Carol's face softened, the anger gone. "And you don't want to take any chances. Neither do I. That's why I want the best Doctor I know working with us."

"Very well, Carol," said Saavik. "Summon Dr. McCoy."

Carol came around the end of the stasis tank to stand with Saavik. Her long years of acquaintance with Spock had taught her not to place a hand on Saavik's shoulder, as she would have a human's, but the physical proximity was enough to convey her support and sympathy.

Carol's hand moved along the glass, tracing the curve of the boy's chin, as if she were actually stroking the flesh. "Maybe I can't blame Starfleet for being so overwhelmed by Genesis. I knew what I was creating, too—a process to bring life from lifelessness. When I see this little miracle, though—"

"Miracles are an illogical concept," said Saavik quietly. "Preston's birth was made possible by your scientific advances."

Carol sighed and laughed gently. "After forty years in my field, I'm ready to admit that some advances are so great they qualify as miracles. Any process that could take David's chromosomes out of dead sperm and bond it with the fetus you and Spock conceived on Genesis... That sounds like a miracle to me, Saavik."

She straightened and turned away from the tank. "I guess the only greater miracle is the one we're looking for now."

It was with some satisfaction that Sarek had acknowledged Saavik's call. He had, from the beginning, advocated bringing Leonard McCoy in to work on Preston's case. Like Saavik, he believed caution was called for in divulging the knowledge of Preston's existence. He had, after all, helped Saavik to keep the secret from the time of Preston's birth. He knew, however, that McCoy was an excellent surgeon, physician and medical researcher. He knew from personal experience that McCoy's abilities included both Vulcan and human patients. Twenty-seven years ago, McCoy had saved his life, correcting a critical heart defect with surgery, under battle conditions.

He regretted that Saavik may have waited too long to ask for the Doctor's assistance. With Preston so close to death, McCoy might not have time to be of any use. Sarek had counseled Saavik to contact both McCoy and Marcus years ago, but she had disregarded his advice, just as she had refused to alert Spock to Preston's existence. Sarek had pledged to abide by her decisions.

And he still honored that pledge. Even though he had contacted Spock on Khitomer, bidding him come to Vulcan, he had not informed him of any details. Would it be his responsibility when Spock came, and his proximity and curiosity, coupled with Saavik's deep need to have Spock's support, caused her secret to be known?

Actually, yes, his logic told him it would be his responsibility, in part; but he was the first to admit that his logic faltered at times.

Sarek and the Doctor now walked briskly through the corridors of the research center on Mt. Seleya. McCoy, knowing that all would be revealed in good time, had kept his badgering to a minimum. Though given to emotional outbursts, Sarek found the Doctor reasonable, for a human.

As they started down the side hallway that led to Preston's room, a figure moved quickly past them. It moved so quickly, in fact, that Sarek almost could not identify it. The person was at the corner when Sarek called out, "Selek."

Almost reluctantly, Selek turned to face them. "Greetings, Ambassador, Doctor," he said quickly. "I regret that I am unable to tarry. There is an urgent subspace message from a colleague—"

"Of course," said Sarek. "We will not detain you."

McCoy stepped forward, studying the young man. "You don't look well, Selek," he said.

Selek, who did seem a trifle pale and winded, put up a hand. "I am still recovering from an illness, as the Ambassador knows. It is nothing."

Indeed, Sarek reflected, he was quite aware of Selek's illness, as he called it. His young colleague's inattentiveness to the matter was actually beginning to concern him.

"The condition is common," Sarek said pointedly, "but it is not 'nothing.'"

Selek nodded, perhaps impatiently. He started to go again, but Sarek asked, "Have you made the necessary arrangements?"

Selek looked blankly at him, and McCoy shot him a questioning glance. That the Doctor was unaware of the hidden meaning in their conversation was to be expected, but why was Selek being so obtuse? It was illogical.

"The time is drawing near," Sarek prompted, "Or am I mistaken."

"No," Selek said distractedly. "You are not mistaken, I—I will attend to it. Excuse me, gentlemen." He rounded the corner and was gone.

"Come, Doctor," said Sarek, and started toward the door. He found himself watching the space where his young colleague had stood, however. Despite Selek's assurances, there had been genuine lack of understanding in his eyes when Sarek had asked about arrangements. For the first time, it occurred to him that Selek really might not know just what was afflicting him. It seemed that Sarek might be called upon to enlighten him. If he did not, the consequences for Selek could well be disastrous.

Selek arrived at his dormitory room, grateful that Vulcans did not believe in locking doors. He didn't even feel up to making a simple voice identification statement to the computer, much less holding still for a retina scan or keying in a combination on a primitive touchpad.

He stumbled through the simple sliding door and sat heavily on the edge of his bed. The pains in his chest were worsening. His head throbbed, and his temperature had to be four degrees above normal. He couldn't even concentrate well enough to remember at what temperature brain cells began to die.

Right now, he wanted nothing more than to get into bed and sleep off whatever it was he'd caught. He had a job to do, though, and Morrow would be waiting for another report. He looked at the viewer, then back at the bed. Calling Morrow wouldn't take that long, so why was he feeling so oppressively tired? What had he caught?

And what had Sarek been talking about? Making arrangements? What did that mean? He was being awfully cryptic.

The call, he reminded himself. Time to make the call. With great effort, he lifted himself off the bed. It was a hard bed, and small, no more than necessary for a quiet, meditative rest. Certainly it would have been impractical for the kind of activities students and academics practiced in dormitory rooms on less inhibited worlds. He tried to imagine one of the staid, Vulcan scientists he'd met during the last few weeks, trying to convince a prospective partner to return to this colorless cell for a roll on the slab.

No, it wouldn't be tolerated. It just wasn't done. Vulcans? Throwing propriety to desert winds and consummating a sexual relationship just for the sheer love of each others' company and the joy of conquest? Vulcan eyes, darting furtively from side to side as Vulcan bodies embraced, stroked, caressed, trying desperately to remain quiet and not alert anyone in the next room?

Never. Not the Vulcans. Even if he were to try and enliven the place, where would he find a partner? Vulcan women weren't of a mind to...

Why was he thinking this way? He mopped sweat from his forehead and stood again to go to the monitor.

Saavik wasn't really a Vulcan.

He keyed the monitor. It flashed to life.

She was half Romulan.

He punched in Morrow's call code and programmed a secure connection.

Was she Romulan enough to be seduced? To give in to subtle suggestion, as a dozen other women had on a dozen other worlds in the years since —

Focus! he told himself. The computer thanked him for his patience while the link was established.

— Saavik had had a human before, giving herself to his embrace, her hot flesh burning against his coolness. Would she —

"I said, 'are you all right?'" Harry Morrow demanded.

Selek cleared the haze from his mind, banished the images of the woman he hardly knew, but couldn't keep out of his thoughts.

"I'm fine," he said, knowing it was apparent he wasn't. "I have some information for you."

"You've uncovered something?"

"Not exactly. I've just discovered why Saavik and McCoy and Marcus are here. I hate to disappoint you, but it's not a Separatist conspiracy."

"And?"

"I managed to plant a self-dissolving disposable microphone on Saavik's sleeve. She and Dr. Marcus disappeared into a secured room, and I taped their conversation," Selek explained. He had to pause a moment, taking deep breaths to regulate his system and help him focus.

"Are you sure you're all right?" asked Morrow.

"Fine. What I learned is that, after Genesis, Saavik was pregnant."

"We knew that. That's why Cartwright ordered her to stay on Vulcan. We assumed the child was Spock's."

"It was—partially."

"What the hell do you mean, 'partially?'" demanded Morrow.

Selek shivered. He rolled his shoulders, as though they were stiff, trying to cloak his symptoms. "The Genesis effect was designed to act on DNA—all kinds of DNA. It acted on the DNA of the child Spock and Saavik conceived. It combined all the genetic material available—including Dr. David Marcus's—to make a three-way hybrid."

Morrow's eyes narrowed. "Are they still doing research on the corpse?"

Selek almost laughed. "Corpse? The boy's alive. He's on life support, but—"

Morrow's eyes now widened. "You're sure?"

"Yes," said Selek, surprised at Morrow's disbelief.

"You're telling me that the Vulcans have a living child who was the product of the Genesis experiment?"

"That's what I said," Selek responded slowly.

"You don't seem to understand the implications of this! Don't you remember what a disaster Genesis was? We almost went to war with the Klingons!"

"I know, but that was ten years ago. Genesis is a closed case, and—"

"Genesis was a closed case," Morrow corrected. "If Saavik's child is still living, he's got the secret of Genesis locked inside his DNA. If anyone were to get hold of him—"

"That seems to be the point of their precautions," Selek said, then he winced. The throbbing in his temples had shifted to a deep, stabbing pain. His head felt like an ice-pick had pierced it.

Morrow wasn't noticing. He was too preoccupied. "I want you to stay glued to that boy," he said. "Make sure no one gets to him before I can get a team in there—"

"Admiral," Selek hissed through his pain, "the kid is dying! Marcus says he won't last out the month, barring a miracle. I don't want to intrude on a family's grief."

"That was not a request, Commander!" Morrow barked. The he noticed Selek's condition. "Good gods, man! You're really sick. What—"

The pain in Selek's head and chest was like a vise grip now. He doubled over in his chair, unable to stifle a moan. Morrow's voice intruded, making the pain worse, grating on him—

— he wanted Saavik's child—

— Selek tried to focus on the Admiral's words. He had a job—

— Saavik!

"Damn you!" Selek spat, the sweat pouring down his face in rivulets now. "Leave her alone!"

On the screen, Morrow's dark face paled in astonishment. "What the hell are you—"

His words were lost as Selek doubled his fists and brought them down heavily on the monitor, smashing its light, sheet-metal casing. He didn't notice the blood smearing the torn edges of the metal with red. He didn't notice anything. His vision was a haze... a red haze.

He collapsed to the floor, shivering uncontrollably. One word escape his lips.

"Saavik..."

Harry Morrow watched the viewer for a moment after it went dark. He'd seen the image jump a few times. Apparently, the monitor on the other end had been beaten lifeless. He absently flicked off his own monitor. "What the hell happened to him?" he wondered out loud. He looked to his companion. "How quickly can we get a medic to him?"

Commodore George Fournier, seated opposite him, took a long sip of whiskey and snorted quietly. "We don't have a medic on that planet we can trust, Harry," he said. "Any Vulcan healer would pick up on the deception, and we'd be in the hottest diplomatic water since Kirk killed Gorkon."

Morrow's teeth clenched. This was an old argument between them. "Jim did not kill Gorkon—"

Fournier held up his hand in surrender. "Sorry. Since he was accused. I know he wanted to."

Morrow leaned back and sighed, taking the bait as he always did. "Jim Kirk wasn't the bloodthirsty SOB you always paint him as, George."

"He was a loose cannon. Getting his way came ahead of the service—"

"His friends came ahead of the service," Morrow said pointedly. "That's called loyalty. Extreme at times, but —"

Fournier set his empty rocks glass down on the desk hard. "We can't afford that kind of self-serving attitude anymore, Harry."

"I know. Times change. I'm just not sure it's for the better." He straightened, pulling his mind back to the issue at hand. "We've got to do something about Metcalfe."

"We've gotta get him out of there. If he dies, and they autopsy—"

"I don't intend to let him die. He's a fine operative."

Fournier shrugged. "He's another Kirk."

"That's what I said."

"We've also got to get the kid."

Morrow nodded sadly. "I know. Much as I hate to admit it, you were right on target. The Vulcans were hiding Genesis information we didn't know about."

"I can't believe we let the ball drop. We knew the woman was pregnant. Her ID scan showed it the minute she entered a Starfleet facility after Genesis."

"But they told us the baby died."

With the smugness he always displayed in person, but hid from the news media's cameras, Fournier said, "You should have known they were lying."

"Who would have suspected Sarek of Vulcan would lie?"

"More to the point—why would he lie? Maybe because he knows Vulcan is harboring a secret that could trigger an intergalactic war. Damn Vulcans and their scientific curiosity anyway! Didn't Genesis teach them that research must be controlled by a higher authority?"

Morrow's eyes glared darkly at his renowned subordinate. He didn't need to be lectured on the lessons of Genesis. It had cost him his position as Commander, Starfleet. "Maybe Sarek is burned that Starfleet almost cost him his son," he offered. "I was the one who told Kirk he couldn't go to Genesis on a rescue mission. I've often thought myself it was a bad call. If there'd been a real Starfleet presence there when the Klingons came—"

"The war would have started then," interrupted Fournier. "With that posturing cowboy in the midst of it. You made the right decision, Admiral."

"And unwittingly sentenced Spock to death."

Fournier grimaced. "Maybe. Whatever the reason, when an official of Sarek's status starts hiding things from us, the whole fabric of the Federation could be starting to unravel."

A delighted smile lit Amanda's face as she opened the front door and found her son standing outside. Years of living amongst Vulcans, and her training as an adept of the Temple of Seleya caused her to restrain her urge to throw her arms around him, but she did reach quickly for his hand, which he wrapped around hers.

He'd loosened up in his old age, she thought. Then she remembered that, while she had been old at his age, he was still comparatively young. Anyway, she hadn't been that old. Then, her young and insecure son had resisted all impulses to display her any affection. She liked him better the way he was now.

"I wasn't expecting you!"

Spock's mouth tightened. "Nor I you. When Father contacted me—"

"Sarek contacted—that sneak!"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I hardly think it dignified, Mother, to refer to Vulcan's premier Ambassador to the Federation as a 'sneak.'"

"A wife's prerogative, Spock," she chuckled. She seated herself in her armchair while he hovered over her. He wouldn't have admitted it, of course, but it was clear from his stance that he was poised to reach out and steady her if she should fall. Was she that creaky and frail-looking, she wondered? She waved him away. "Sit down. What has your father told you?"

He did as he was told, settling on the couch opposite her. "It was only a brief communiqué. He said there was a grave family illness. I assumed—"

"—that it was me? Don't be embarrassed, Spock. It could have been. I'm not sixty-five anymore."

"I also know that Saavik is here. Is she ill?"

"No." A momentary hope flared within her that Saavik had listened to her advice and initiated some contact with him. "Did she tell you she was here?"

He shook his head slowly. "I have heard very little of her in the two years since she left the _Enterprise_."

"I hadn't realized you'd grown that distant."

"She has her reasons," he said quietly. His face clouded with a self-recrimination she'd seen in him all too often. "I disregarded her opinions about Valeris. I allowed... other issues to cloud my reason. Had I listened to her, Chancellor Gorkon might be alive today."

"Spock, you can't play those games with yourself. You didn't kill Gorkon, and Valeris—"

"Saavik recognized Valeris's bigotry immediately," he interrupted "I thought, at the time, that her Romulan jealousies were aroused by my attentions to Valeris."

"This is no time for petty jealousy—or wounded pride," Amanda said. She knew an element of anger was creeping into her voice. She let it creep. For a moment she was quiet, considering the wisdom of what she wanted to do now. "Spock, there is something Saavik must tell you. I'll take you to her and give her this chance. If you still can't find some way to communicate with each other after all this time... " She broke off. She didn't like being angry, especially at her only son. "Damn!" she hissed finally, not knowing what else to say.

Spock raised an eyebrow very high. It occurred to her he might never have heard her swear before.

"Where any of you Vulcans get off saying you're in control of your emotions is beyond me!" She stood hurriedly, hoping that doing so dispelled his notions of her infirmity. "Come on, we're leaving!"

"Where are we going?"

"To Mt. Seleya. There's someone there you need to meet."

She hurried to the door. She'd given her word to stay out of Saavik's battle with Spock, but it was clear they were both to proud and stubborn to apologize to each other. Maybe, eventually, either or both of them would mature enough make the first move. Amanda wasn't going to wait for that to happen.

After all, she had only another few decades to live.

Sarek had delivered McCoy to Saavik and Dr. Marcus as requested. Now, concerned about Selek's unusual behavior, he'd come to the Academy to check on him. Selek's clear failure to understand Sarek's veiled references to his condition baffled the ambassador. It could all have been a pretense, for the human's benefit; but Sarek did not believe that was the case.

Selek sorely needed guidance.

The door to Selek's room was closed. Sarek tapped on it gently. Receiving no answer, he tried another, firmer knock. From inside there was a sound, a very quiet sound of a voice. He couldn't be sure, but it didn't sound as though he'd actually been answered. It was closer to a moan of pain.

It was bad manners to enter without invitation, but he suspected Selek needed assistance. He pressed the key to open the door. It was locked. Well, Selek had lived a long time amongst outworlders. Perhaps he had acquired bad habits.

The moan came again, louder this time. There was no longer any question of propriety in Sarek's mind. Pulling back from the door, he slammed his shoulder against it, putting his entire weight into the blow. The thin metal crumpled at the edge, enough for him to reach one hand inside, grasp the door, and force it backward in its tracks.

Inside the room, Selek lay face down on the floor. Although apparently unconscious, his body twitched as if in pain. Sarek knelt beside him and examined him carefully, without touching him. Sweat matted his hair against his head and face. His face contorted in a grimace of pain. There was an object clutched in his right hand. Sarek reached out and carefully removed it from his grasp. It was a dispenser of plasti-skin, meant for repairing minor flesh wounds. Inspecting Selek's other hand, he found that the material had been sloppily applied to the back and side. The wound, if there was one, was covered; but even one with no medical training would never have slathered it on so thickly, unless he were intoxicated, or in terrible pain.

The latter case seemed the most likely.

Still not grasping him, for fear of causing him further discomfort, Sarek gently called out Selek's name. There was no response, so he said it again, louder. Still the younger Vulcan did not move. Finally, realizing that there was really little discomfort his touch could cause a psi-blind Vulcan, he took hold of Selek's shoulder and gently shook him.

The young man moaned again, shivered, and clutched himself. The fever had set in upon him deeply. He might not even be coherent. It did not surprise Sarek, therefore, when Selek's eyes opened and looked upon him, first with confusion, and then with rage.

"What are you doing here?" Selek demanded through chattering teeth.

"I came because you have disregarded your condition. You are jeopardizing your health, Selek."

Selek tried to sit up, failed, and smacked his head against the hard floor. Sarek took him by the shoulder and lifted him gently. "What are you talking about?" Selek asked. "What condition?"

"Surely you did not think it could escape the notice of other Vulcans. Have you arranged—"

"Damn you, leave me alone!"

Sarek frowned despite himself. The madness of the fever was advanced. There was not much time. "I will not leave you. I cannot. Have you arranged for a bonding?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Selek, you are in _pon far_. Is it possible you did not recognize the symptoms?"

For a moment, Selek was able to quiet his chattering teeth and stop his shivering. He looked at Sarek in shock. " _Pon far_?" A harsh laugh emanated from his chest, mixed with dry coughs "That's ridiculous! You don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

Sarek set his tone hard to cut through Selek's emotional state and reach the rational intellect within. "You are becoming hysterical. Your behavior is that of one whose time is at hand." Selek met his eyes. He stopped laughing. Feeling that, perhaps, he had established communication, Sarek went on quietly. "The attentions you have shown to Saavik are unmistakable. There is no shame in admitting you were improperly taught by your parents. You must arrange—"

Selek exploded in rage and pain. He shoved Sarek backwards. Through sheer power of will, he forced his uncooperative limbs into a standing position, and screamed, "I'm not in _pon far_ you damned fool! Leave me alone! At least get McCoy here—!"

His eyes rolled up in his head as a stab of pain hit him in the chest. He fell to the floor. Sarek crossed and lifted his unconscious body easily. He would take Selek to the hospital. The healers would be able to slow the progress of the fever, until a bondmate could be found. As he carried Selek out the door, Sarek wondered why, in his final outburst, he had asked for the assistance of a human doctor.


	8. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock meets his son, Preston Kirk Marcus. Healers come to the aid of Selek, who is deep in Plak Tow and calling for his bondmate--Saavik!

Chapter Five

Spock studied the small figure floating within the life support tank. His hands were clasped behind his back. He looked for all the world as if he were studying a museum exhibit on earth's cave people. After a long, silent time, he said quietly, "Fascinating."

McCoy advanced on him, his tone low with barely suppressed anger. "Is that the best you can manage? You have a child, man!"

The healer who had escorted Spock and his mother into this tiny room turned blandly toward his human counterpart. His tone was impassive, but Spock could hear an underlying distaste for McCoy's display of emotion. "You are human, Dr. McCoy. You do not understand our ways." The healer made a small gesture toward Spock. "Because he is not bonded with the mother, he has no responsibility to accept the child as his son."

McCoy's eyebrow shot up in a gesture of surprise which Spock had always wondered about. Was it an unconscious imitation of himself? For all its similarity to his own expression of perplexity, it was accompanied by wide eyes and an outraged tone which Spock could never have produced. McCoy whirled on the healer, and it occurred to Spock that his countryman had not chosen his opponent wisely.

"Listen, my green-blooded friend," McCoy said, "I know Vulcans have hearts—I've held them in my hands! Don't tell me—"

"Doctor, please," Spock interrupted. "Your outburst is ill-timed. The healer is quite correct. Saavik's mind was joined to this body, but my katra was not in place at the time. For Vulcans, it is the fusion of mind and body which is recognized as the individual, and thus the parent. That the child shares my DNA—"

"Dammit, Spock—" McCoy began, his fists clenched.

Carol Marcus stepped quickly between Spock and McCoy. "Would you both please stop arguing!" Her tone carried the authority she was accustomed to exercising professionally. For communicating strength of will, it rivaled Jim Kirk's own voice of command. She turned to Spock and spoke more gently and reasonably. "Mr. Spock, you've suffered quite a blow here. Maybe you should take some time to think."

He nodded. "That would be... appreciated." He turned towards the door, and his eyes met Saavik's. She looked immediately downward, just as she had that day in the temple so many years ago, when he'd been restored by the _fal tor pan_. Just as she had done often in the intervening years. What, he wondered, had expunged her willingness to look him in the eye?

She hadn't said a word since he'd arrived, barely an hour ago. She'd greeted him politely, but that was all. She had not reproached Amanda for breaking their agreement and bringing him here, nor had she spoken against Sarek for contacting him to begin with. Sarek would defend his actions as logical—Spock was one of the most gifted theoretical scientists in the Federation, and his knowledge of Genesis was second only to that of Carol Marcus. His mother believed that Saavik wanted Spock here, but would not admit it. Was that true? Did her failure to inform him of the existence of the child indicate a desire to protect his honor only? To save him from the criticism that would surely come of his producing a child with a Romulan halfbreed? Or was there a less beneficent motive? Did Saavik, perhaps, simply not want Spock here at all?

For once, he had to admit that the combination of complex scientific data and emotional strain of discovery left him uncertain of a course of action. He needed time to contemplate the matter. "I will return home to meditate for a time," he said to Dr. Marcus. "If I am needed here, please notify me."

His mother looked relieved. "That's a good idea. Saavik, why don't you go with him? You could use a break."

Despite her flawless Vulcan facade, his years of knowing Saavik told Spock that panic was welling up within her. "I—" she began, then set her lips in a firm line.

McCoy smiled and stepped close to her. The smile was part of an overall demeanor Spock didn't often see in the doctor. He reserved it for an exclusive minority, of which his daughter Joanna was one member. Saavik was another. Spock wasn't sure, but he thought it was the fondness a Southern father displayed for his daughters. "Go with him, honey. Maybe you can pound some sense into him."

"Doctor—" Spock protested, knowing Saavik would not speak to defend her wishes.

Amanda stepped to him and placed her hands firmly on his arm. Spock stiffened as her warm, strong psychic presence touched his mind. She moved slowly. She looked frail, but Amanda's will was as strong as it ever had been. She was inflicting it on his mind deliberately, knowing it would cause him discomfort. It was something she did rarely, when she believed the situation was grave, that Spock was wrong, and that she needed to make him see her point of view.

"Spock," she said carefully, then turned to the young woman standing by the door. "Saavik... like it or not, you both have to face this. Try and do it together."

Barely looking up, Saavik said quietly, "I will go with you, Spock. It is all right."

But he knew that it was not.

After some minutes' awkward silence during the ride to Sarek and Amanda's home, Spock said, without looking at her, "I know that you did not wish to accompany me. If you would like to be alone—"

"It would seem that is what you want," Saavik replied.

Was her tone hostile, or merely devoid of feeling? He hoped she understood that he respected her desire for solitude, even though he did not encourage it. He did not want to force his presence on her.

"My mother and Dr. McCoy are human. They believe that a preponderance of emotionally charged verbiage is beneficial to a situation. They think that we can... 'work it out.' They do not understand the situation."

She looked up at him for the first time. "What is the situation between us, Spock?"

"I am uncertain. How do you perceive it? We have not communicated for two years."

"I considered contacting you often. I was not sure what to say."

He considered his response carefully, trying to keep reproach from his tone, if not his words. "It would have been advisable to tell me that you had a child. Did you not consider that, as your benefactor, I would be interested—"

"Spock," she interrupted, with no trace of deference, "you are lecturing me. I am no longer your student. Please be mindful of that fact. I had many reasons for not informing you. Among them is the Vulcan custom which makes you say that I have a child, not that _we_ have a child."

"You are angry. Perhaps that is not unjustified. It would be best if we both meditated before discussing this matter."

She nodded. "As you wish."

They were silent again for the rest of the ride. He wondered if her acquiescence to his suggestion of mediation was genuine, or merely an attempt to avoid an inevitable confrontation. Fortunately, there was only a short distance for the car to cover. Within minutes, it pulled up to its programmed destination.

They were barely inside the front door, however, when the home message system clicked on, and a small hologram of Sarek appeared in the hallway before them. It greeted Amanda, who would normally be the only one returning to the house. "I will be at the hospital for an undetermined period," it said. "Selek has had a relapse of his illness. I will remain with him, in case I am able to render aid."

"Who," asked Spock, "is Selek?"

"Your father is sponsoring him at the Vulcan Science Academy," Saavik replied. "I know little else."

Spock considered this information for a moment. He had intended to meditate, true, but he had also intended to discuss the situation with his father. That would not be possible, now, unless he went to Sarek.

"I will go to the hospital," he said to Saavik. "I have not paid my father my respects, and you might wish to be alone."

"I will accompany you," Saavik said, he thought a little quickly. "I...should like to be informed of Selek's condition."

He nodded and turned to signal for another ground car while reflecting how odd it was that Saavik would show such a deep concern for one she had met only briefly.

Sarek waited in a corridor outside an examination room at Shi Kahr's only hospital. He stood calmly, his hands folded in front of him, obviously in deep concentration. He did not move when Spock and Saavik approached.

"Father," Spock said quietly, not wishing to jolt Sarek to suddenly from his contemplative state.

Sarek's eyes focused again, and he turned to face the new arrivals. "Forgive me, my son. I was detecting a surge of psychic energy in the immediate area, a mental cry of some sort."

"Someone asking for help?" asked Spock.

Sarek shook his head. "Nothing that coherent. It was not the touch of a disciplined mind."

"Not a Vulcan?" asked Saavik.

Sarek considered that for a moment. "The feeling was not strong enough for me to determine. It is gone now."

"Perhaps you merely sensed the stray emanations of one of the infants in the nursery," Spock suggested.

"Quite possibly," agreed Sarek. "It is agreeable to see you again, Spock." He scanned his son's face intently, as if searching for some hidden information. "Have you been to Mt. Seleya?"

"I have," said Spock, knowing that his tone conveyed the information his father sought. He was confirming that he knew of Preston's existence. He was also quite aware of Saavik's eyes, darting away from him as the sensitive subject was broached, but still watching him, waiting for his response. "We will speak of it at home," Spock said.

"Is Selek's illness more severe than suspected?" Saavik asked quickly.

The faintest trace of irony played over Sarek's lips. "More severe than he was willing to admit, yes. Also more severe than was necessary. Selek is in _pon far_. He has recklessly failed to make the necessary arrangements for a bonding. I am at a loss to understand why he allowed his condition to progress so far."

There was curiosity on Saavik's face as Sarek spoke. "Selek asked me if I was bonded. I had believed he was intending to discuss a match between us."

"Yes," said Sarek. "I would consider that a logical course of action. I began to notice that Selek was in _pon far_ some weeks ago. I assumed he was making preparations, but his demeanor and conversation did not indicate so. I thought, perhaps, being unfamiliar with our customs, he was unsure how to proceed."

"It is illogical not to ask for assistance," said Spock.

"Indeed," Sarek agreed. "In any case, he is now deep in _plak tow_. There is little time left to act."

Spock knew from personal experience that only the release of physical and psychic bonding—or a life and death conflict with another—could halt the deadly buildup of hormones that _pon far_ set in motion. The life and death struggle was almost unheard of, of course, save for the unpleasantness caused by T'Pring during his own first _pon far._ That left only the far more common solution open to Selek. Fortunately, even with the careful planning of marriages done on modern Vulcan, there were provisions made for those who were left suddenly bereft of a bondmate.

"Has the healer summoned a _seershahl_?" Spock asked. The _seershahl_ were trained on Mt. Seleya in a unique branch of the teachings of Surak. They learned to bring those males left alone in _pon far_ through their suffering without forming a permanent psychic bond. Dr. McCoy had once asked if they represented Vulcan's "oldest profession," a remark which had puzzled Spock until he had learned that the Doctor referred to the earthly vocation of prostitution. There were unfortunate parallels, in that the _seershahl_ bore the brunt of the suffering. She broke the bond with the male she had treated but left his mind free of any of the usual scars that would result. She absorbed all of the pain herself and dealt with it alone. That was what she was trained to do.

Unlike earth prostitutes, however, the _seershahl_ were among Vulcan's most honored females. No male would have gone to one willingly, for it would be disgraceful to inflict such suffering on another without reason.

"The healer suggested we wait to call for a _seershahl_ ," Sarek said. "He wishes to complete his examination first."

"But if Selek is deep in _plak tow_ , time is of the essence."

"It is puzzling," Sarek agreed, "but the healer considers Selek's a most unusual case. He does not respond to the usual psychic tranquilizing techniques."

"That could be a result of his psi-blindness," said Saavik.

"Selek is psi-blind?" asked Spock. "How unusual."

The door to the examination room opened, and healer they'd been waiting for emerged. He was a small, middle-aged male with wispy, graying hair only on the sides of his head. He trained bright eyes on Sarek and spoke quietly. "Your friend's condition is most unusual."

"What have you learned?" asked Saavik.

When he saw her, the healer's gentle face registered surprise. "Your timing is fortunate," he said. "You must come to him immediately."

Saavik's look of surprise was more emphatic than the healer's. "I don't understand. Do you know me?"

"I saw your face in his mind," explained the healer. "Although my attempts to slow the progress of the _plak tow_ have failed, I was able to touch his consciousness. You are the center of his thoughts."

"I?"

"Are you not his bondmate?"

"She is not," Sarek said quietly.

"Most unusual," breathed the healer. "The mind in _plak tow_ focuses only on the one joined to it."

"Fascinating," Spock agreed.

"I have not sent for a _seershahl_ ," the healer continued, "as I had believed him to be bonded, and his mind sensed his bondmate was near."

"I am not Selek's bondmate," Saavik said.

"Would it help his condition if Saavik were with him?" Spock asked.

"I might," said the healer. "It is difficult to say. You are certain—"

"—that I am not bonded to him?" asked Saavik. "My memory is reliable, healer."

"One does not know what effect..." The healer stopped, looking at Saavik, then at her two renowned companions. "That is to say..."

They were all well aware what he was trying to say—that Saavik's Romulan heritage might be somehow corrupting the _pon far_ of her bondmate. His suggestion implied that she would let her bondmate die before admitting that she was the cause of his affliction. Spock could almost feel the anger seething within her. He remembered a time when she would have blushed quite green from such an insult. He remembered an earlier time when she might very well have ripped out the healer's liver. She did neither.

"I remind you, healer," said Sarek with gentle force, "that Saavik is a Vulcan by training. That is all that is of consequence."

The healer nodded slowly. "Of course, Sarek. I recommend she attempt to communicate with him. I will leave you for a brief time. Please signal, if my assistance is immediately required."

Spock was impressed. Saavik focused more on the need to help Selek than on the healer's speaking as if she were absent. She moved to go in the door, and he and Sarek followed.

Inside, Selek lay on a table, a thin sheet draped over his body. His face was sticky with dried sweat, but he was still. The pains had left him, but now the _plak tow_ was upon him. His mind focused on one driving need, and his body would be still until relief came... or until he died.

Saavik crossed to his side, spoke his name quietly, then settled into a chair beside him. She gently lifted one hand to his face, tentatively, touching the _katra_ points. Spock studied Selek closely as she did this, looking, particularly, at his face. It was familiar. Spock was sure he had seen it long ago, but where? Selek, he was told, had grown up away from Vulcan. Spock would never have had occasion to meet him, unless the _Enterprise_ had once crossed his parents' path...

The _Enterprise_. Thinking of the ship brought the answer. He knew where he had seen Selek before. "Saavik," he said quickly, "I think it best that you do not contact his mind just yet."

Saavik stopped, looking up at him, questioning.

Sarek scanned his face and said, "You have noticed something, Spock."

"I have. I must contact _Excelsior_."

"For what purpose?"

"I believe Captain Sulu can verify my suspicions. And Father, if they are correct, we must halt all attempts to treat Selek. He is not in _pon far_. He cannot be."

Sarek raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Spock's conclusion. "Why?"

"Unless I am sorely mistaken, Selek is human."


	9. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selek's true identity is discovered. Spock uses a mind meld to diagnose his actual condition and formulates a plan to help, by visiting a forbidden world. Meanwhile, Federation Intelligence makes an attempt against Preston Marcus.

Chapter Six

"Without a doubt, that's Terry Metcalfe."

"A human?" asked Sarek.

Hikaru Sulu gave the ironic smile that was so familiar to Spock from their many years together. "As human as they come. Melanin adjustments and surgery can cover a multitude of sins, but I'm not likely to forget the faces of the officers from my first command."

They were seated in the hospital lounge—Sulu, Spock, Sarek and Saavik. They each sipped at different hot beverages. To Spock's surprise, Sulu had selected the same Vulcan tea blend that he and his father drank. It was not widely known among humans. Saavik had ordered coffee so strong that Spock had wondered if the food selector was malfunctioning, but she said she preferred it that way.

"Well then," said Sarek, "he cannot be in _pon far_."

"The question remains—what is causing his condition?" asked Spock. "Why does the healer see Saavik's image in his mind, as though they were bonded?"

"Did you two know each other, Saavik?" Sulu asked.

"No, Captain. Commander Metcalfe and I had never met. I knew of him only through you."

"His elaborate disguise also begs explanation," said Sarek.

"At least that part makes sense to me, Ambassador," said Sulu. "Disguise is one of Terry's specialties. He's been one of Admiral Morrow's crack Starfleet Intelligence operatives for the past six years. He was on _Excelsior_ before I commanded her, when she was under George Fournier."

As ever, Sulu's face betrayed his feelings. He said his predecessor's name with great distaste.

"You do not approve of Commodore Fournier?" Spock asked.

"No, Mr. Spock. He's an opportunist and a politician."

"He is highly regarded in the Federation," said Sarek. "The council thinks well of him."

"I suppose I'll never make the Council," admitted Sulu. "Terry couldn't stomach Fournier at all. Fournier had a habit of condescending to his officers, embarrassing them. It didn't sit well. It was especially hard for Terry because he was to have been assigned to _Enterprise_ when she resumed exploratory duty. You all know the rumors were flying then."

Spock nodded. "Captain Kirk, despite his protests to the contrary, had the opportunity at that point to return to starship command. It was a popular notion that he would once again captain the _Enterprise_."

"Terry was high as a kite," said Sulu. "Captain Kirk was one of his heroes. Then... well, in the time between the decommission of the first _Enterprise_ after our battle with Khan, and our assignment to the _Enterprise_ -A, Terry was snatched up for _Excelsior_. Bad timing changed his whole life." Sulu looked over to Saavik. "Had things gone as planned, you would have known him quite well. As it was, he hated his assignment, and he came back to the Academy for Intelligence training."

"So," said Sarek. "We must ask why an intelligence officer would be sent to Vulcan under cover?"

"It is an extreme measure," said Spock, "suggesting that Vulcan might harbor elements threatening to the Federation. Now that Metcalfe's presence has become known, it may foster ill will against Vulcan in the Council."

"Or against Starfleet, depending," said Sulu.

"At any rate it is a violation of our agreement with Starfleet," said Sarek. "Member worlds of Vulcan's status are meant to be immune to such infiltration except in times of declared emergency. I will have to lodge a complaint with the council."

"In the meantime," said Spock, "we must find a way to aid Commander Metcalfe. Dr. McCoy should be brought here quickly."

"A deeper probe of his mind would be in order as well," said Sarek. "The healer could not get past Metcalfe's resistance to his examination without force. His unconscious mind is no doubt trying to maintain its secrets. If someone he trusted were to meld with him, we might discover more."

Spock nodded in agreement. "Since he was my student once as well, I believe I know him the best of any of the available Vulcans. I will attempt to mind meld with him."

Sulu stood as Spock did. "I'll go and fetch Dr. McCoy."

Spock dimmed the lights in the room to eliminate distraction. With an unconscious, unwilling subject, establishing a meld was never easy. His father and Saavik sat quietly in the corner, ready to assist, if need be.

He sat beside Metcalfe and brought his fingers to the human's _katra_ points. Quietly, in a gentle cadence, he began the ritual recitation which aided both minds in the joining. "My mind, to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts. Our minds are drawing closer..."

There was resistance, as expected. Humans, despite their lack of true telepathic ability, had powerful psychic shields which rose instinctively during a mind meld. The more agitated the mind, especially if danger was near, the more powerful the shields. It was possible for a strong-willed human to resist the mind touch entirely. Indeed, in the course of many mind melds with Jim Kirk, Spock had become convinced that he could never have entered Kirk's mind had they been strangers.

Metcalfe's will was strong as well. To complicate matters, he was in great pain and trying to protect his identity. Spock attacked this barrier first. He called out quietly over the tentative mental link he'd established.

//Commander Metcalfe, do not resist. It is Spock. I will not reveal your identity.//

There was no understandable response from the other's mind. Spock did not really expect one. There was a relaxation of the tension over the link, however. The barriers were beginning to slacken. He could press on.

A wave of pain washed through his mind and body, smacking him like an ocean wave which knocked a swimmer to the sand. His physical body wrenched and stiffened. He heard his breath forced out in a powerful exhalation. Metcalfe's pain was the pain of _pon far_. Spock remembered it well. Worse, it was the pain of _pon far_ in one who had not been trained from birth to cope with it. Metcalfe was ridden with terror, afraid for his own sanity.

//I can lessen your pain,// Spock assured him. //Will you allow me to help?//

Again, there was no answer, but the shields did not strengthen. Spock pressed still further, opening his mind to Metcalfe's pain and fear. This time, because he was prepared for them, they did not hit him head on. They lapped slowly, stingingly at his mind, moving gradually upward like lava filling a pit. The pain was there, but Spock could cope with it. Its constancy was the key. He could gradually adjust his pain receptors, telling them that the pain was not a threat to the body. Then it lessened in his mind, and so it lessened in Metcalfe's.

//I will absorb your pain,// he called out. //I can teach you to control it. You need not be afraid. It is conquerable.//

Understanding came over the link, coupled with relief. Metcalfe's consciousness was beginning to recover. Perhaps Spock could communicate now.

//You are not in _pon far_. You are not Vulcan. What is the nature of the madness which possesses you?//

Coherent response was still beyond the capability of Metcalfe's tortured mind. When the Vulcan mind was deep in _pon far_ , Spock knew, it transmitted images of that which it sought. That was why the healer had believed Saavik was Metcalfe's bondmate. His mind had shown her image, as the mind of her bondmate in _pon far_ would be expected to do. Perhaps Metcalfe could show him other images.

//Can you show me what causes your pain?//

A spot of dim light appeared in the darkness. It pulsed and flickered. For a moment, Spock believed that Metcalfe would not be able to summon the strength to form an image. Then the light brightened, and a shape formed. A face appeared. It was Saavik. Although she looked little different now than she had when she'd first come aboard the _Enterprise_ , Spock knew this image was from that time. There was more of an innocence about her, and more of an unquantifiable quality of... what? It suddenly occurred to Spock that Saavik had changed drastically over the last ten years, and he really hadn't noticed. It wasn't a physical change, but she'd become more subdued, less enthusiastic. He had thought she was maturing.

Now, looking at Metcalfe's image of a young Saavik, he realized that her soul was slowly dying.

What? The soul was not a Vulcan concept. Where had that thought come from? From Metcalfe, no doubt. But Metcalfe didn't know Saavik. He certainly hadn't known her when she'd looked as she did in this mental image.

//Why do you show me Saavik?//

The image faded into amorphous, ethereal light. It swirled now, like smoke from a campfire, it stretched and morphed. A new image formed. This time Saavik was not alone. Metcalfe was with her. It was a younger Terry Metcalfe, very much as he had looked when Spock had taught him. He wore a uniform and a Lieutenant's insignia. His dark hair was not close-cropped, as it was now. The image of Metcalfe joined hands with the image of Saavik, facing her. He leaned forward and kissed her gently.

When had this happened? And behind them, another image half-formed. It was familiar, ringlike... then it dissolved, like a transporter pattern yanked back to its source. Saavik and Metcalfe's images faded also into the faint cloud of light from which they'd come. The spinning disk of light remained, and it began to form, again, into a shape. It took on human form and lay prone before Spock. The details filled in slowly. It was a man. A Starfleet uniform came into being around him. The body lay still. Its face drifted into recognizable form, and Spock could not help but feel surprise.

Before him was Jim Kirk, quite dead. Around Kirk's body remained the cloud of light. Spock could now sense that the light itself was an entity, part of the picture. There was a threat implied. It was hurting Kirk, draining his life force. Spock repressed an absurd desire to aid his fallen friend. He reminded himself that Kirk was dead, that none of this had really happened.

There was movement to the side of the image, and Saavik appeared. She took Kirk's hand and pulled gently. He rose up, alive again, his eyes bright. He stood beside Saavik, and, together, they gazed into the cloud of light behind them. A figure stepped out. Spock recognized himself, also younger than he was now, and wearing civilian clothing. The image of himself took Kirk by the arm and led him away, toward the cloud of light. Saavik watched impassively. The light swirled and changed again. It took shape, the same shape it had taken behind the images of Saavik and Metcalfe. This time, the image was clear, and Spock recognized it.

The image did not answer all his questions, but it provided a clue. At least he knew what step to take next. He had to return to the Time Planet. He had to take Metcalfe to the Guardian of Forever.

"If only there were some way of regenerating the DNA," said McCoy as he straightened himself and stretched. He'd been bent over the eyepiece of an analyzer, looking at samples of Preston's mutant genetic material, for well over an hour.

"If we could make a purified version, an optimization, if you will, of what's there now, then introduce it in place of the protomatter-ridden DNA that's deteriorating..." He shook his head and sat down hard. "We're looking at re-creating life itself," he muttered.

Carol, seated across from him, smiled weakly. "That was the whole purpose of Genesis. It's a big job. I took it on when I was a lot younger."

"And abandoned it because of its destructive potential," McCoy added.

She stood and came to rub his aching neck. He moaned in relief as her fingers played over cramped muscles. "You never did approve of Genesis, did you Leonard?"

He hesitated. She was right, but he didn't want to hurt her feelings. "I was concerned about the danger it presented to established worlds. We're a savage race. We'll use anything as a weapon."

"Isn't the mind the most powerful weapon of all? It allows the development of all other weapons. Would you have suggested abandoning the research that engineered it?"

"Touche," he grinned. "I think I'm just getting tired. And feeling hopeless. If we can't rebuild his DNA, he doesn't stand much of a chance. It's never been done."

"Yes," she corrected him, "it has."

He looked sharply at her, and she abandoned her ministrations and came around to sit next to him. "I've been thinking about it all morning," she explained. "You remember I was part of the archaeological team on Pellegrinos? The civilization there—we called them the Kallistans—was extremely advanced before they were wiped out in some final cataclysm. I think they may have been the most inventive humanoid race in the history of this galaxy. At any rate, they were brilliant genetic engineers. I remember going through some of their old publications. Their scientists dealt with this very problem, late in their history. We believe it may have been a biogenetic disaster which wiped them out, and this was an attempt to combat it."

"Did they succeed?" asked McCoy.

She shrugged. "I never found out. After the Khitomer conference, the Federation deeded a huge area of border space over to the Klingons. Pellegrinos is right at the heart of it. We were banned from returning to the outpost."

McCoy stretched his arms over his head and yawned. "I have to be honest with you, Carol. I can stabilize his condition by tapping into neural control pathways the Vulcan healers aren't versed in. I can keep him alive maybe two weeks. That's all I can do." He looked her firmly in the eye. "If you want to save Preston, we're going to have to try something unorthodox. We won't have time for trial and error, either. If Pellegrinos might hold the key, if you think it's our best shot—"

"We can't get there, Leonard," she interrupted.

"Never say 'can't,'" he retorted, shaking a finger.

The door to the lab slid open, and a figure stepped quickly in. It was a youngish Vulcan male, dressed in the simple robes that everyone on Mt. Seleya wore. Carol and McCoy looked up at him, surprised by his sudden entrance.

"I am Teslak," he said quietly. "I have come to check on the condition of the patient."

McCoy stood. "His condition hasn't changed." He looked the man up and down. "I don't believe I've seen you here before." There was something he didn't like about him. Perhaps it was his natural impatience with Vulcans, or perhaps it was something else.

Teslak replied, "There are many of us here, Dr. McCoy, and you have not been among us long. How could you know us all?"

"I suppose I couldn't," conceded McCoy. He was tired, and perhaps he was being paranoid. "I guess I'm just a little protective of my patients."

"We have cared for the boy for many years, Doctor. While we appreciate your position as a friend of his grandparents, and as a noted physician, you must allow us to continue our own efforts." He moved slowly past McCoy, who made way for him, but watched him closely as he neared the door to Preston's room. McCoy looked to Carol, whose expression said Teslak was a stranger to her, too.

The healer was just entering the inner room when McCoy leapt upon his back, wrapped one arm tightly about his neck, and wrestled him to the ground. Behind them, Carol cried out in shocked surprise, demanding to know what McCoy was doing.

He ignored her, concentrating on his opponent. The man was strong, and in good condition. His self-defense training showed in the way he handled himself. One minute, he was on the floor with McCoy sitting on top of his shoulders, the next, he had the older Doctor on the ground, pinned, with one hand around his throat.

McCoy looked up into Teslak's eyes. They were filled with rage. His nostrils flared. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his fist and prepared to strike. McCoy struggled in his grasp, trying to turn his face to avoid the blow.

There was a dull thud, accompanied by a ringing sound, and Teslak fell to one side, off of McCoy. With the Vulcan out of his field of vision, McCoy saw Carol, still holding the heavy metal tray she'd clouted Teslak with. She came forward to help him up.

"That was no Vulcan," Carol said, taking McCoy's hand and pulling him to his feet. "You never would have lasted so long against him."

"Thanks," said McCoy ironically, but he knew it was the truth.

"So what tipped you off?" Carol asked.

McCoy brushed off his jacket and pants. "He referred to Preston as Sarek and Amanda's grandson. After the fuss they made over Vulcan custom, and Spock not being his father, that just didn't jibe. I've put up with this infuriating bunch long enough to know how precise they are, even in casual conversation."

"So who is he?" asked Carol. "Why is he here?"

"Whoever he is," answered McCoy, "he's as human as you and I. Look."

She followed his gesture to the floor by "Teslak's" head, where a pool of blood formed around his nose, injured in his fall. The blood was a very recognizable human red.

The man rushed quickly out of a ground car and approached Sulu at a stride as the Captain headed out the front door of the hospital. He waved an ID in Sulu's face. "Excuse me, Captain," he said harshly, putting no genuine respect behind his use of his superior's title. "Starfleet Intelligence."

"So I see," Sulu said drily. "And now, mister, perhaps you'd care to remove your ID from my face, or is there a rumor I've become nearsighted in my old age?"

The agent re-pocketed his card. He was a head or so taller than Sulu, his skin an indeterminate mix of various earth human tints. His manner was arrogant. Sulu wondered how many days ago he'd started shaving.

"I'm pressed for time, Captain," the agent went on. "We've received word that a Vulcan scientist named Selek was brought here. He's wanted for questioning. I don't suppose you—"

"You suppose damn well I know where he is," Sulu corrected. "You know Metcalfe's an old friend of mine. You know that's why I'm here. If you didn't, you wouldn't ask. I know he's one of your agents and that's why you're here. Why don't we stop insulting each others' intelligence?"

"Sir?" the man demanded stiffly.

Unconsciously, Sulu raised up on his heels slightly, putting himself close to eye level with the man. "Why is Terry Metcalfe here under a false identity? In breech of Federation policy?"

"I don't know sir. It's not my concern. Begging your pardon, Captain, it's not yours either." He started to step around Sulu. "I've been sent to assess his condition and transport him to the nearest Starbase for—"

"Hold it," said Sulu, placing a hand gently, but firmly on the man's shoulder.

The man looked at Sulu's hand, assessing, Sulu knew, his ability to physically incapacitate the older, smaller Captain should it become necessary. Sulu had no doubt the agent's training was excellent. He also had no doubt that, if he had to, he could pin the bigger man and render him unconscious in a second. He let that certain knowledge shine in his eyes as he said, "I'm aware of SI's authority in these matters, but I'm still the ranking officer present. I'm going to need to verify your orders—"

"My orders come from Admiral Morrow, who told me to waste no time."

"I'm sure Admiral Morrow would tell you that respecting the authority of a superior officer is not a waste of time," said Sulu. "Wait in the lobby."

"Captain—"

"That's an order, Mister!" He turned to leave.

"Sulu! Thank god!" Leonard McCoy, with Carol Marcus at his side, rushed up the walkway toward him. Both were out of breath. Wherever they'd come from, they'd run hard. What were they doing here, anyway? The looks on their faces told him that something was very wrong. Instinct told Sulu that he didn't want the pushy SI agent to hear anything about it.

McCoy wasn't noticing the other man, though. He closed the distance between himself and Sulu, talking the whole time. "Where're Spock and Saavik? We've all gotta get back to Seleya and—"

"I'll take you to Spock, Doctor," Sulu said loudly. "He's been waiting for you."

"What?" McCoy demanded. "Why in hell would he—?"

"I'll brief you on the way," said Sulu, taking McCoy's arm and pulling.

"But we were just attacked—!"

Trying not to make eye contact with the agent who craned his neck to hear the conversation, Sulu yanked McCoy even harder and began to stride into the lobby.

"This way, Doc," he said.

The agent called after them, insisting that he had to proceed with his orders. Sulu assured him he'd be right with him, then pulled Carol and McCoy into a waiting lift and punched the close button on the doors.

Inside the lift, McCoy demanded, "What in blazes is going on here?"

"That gentleman is from Starfleet Intelligence," said Sulu. "He has orders to take Metcalfe."

Almost simultaneously, McCoy said, "Intelligence! Of course. That must be where our goon came from! He was after Preston." McCoy stopped as Sulu's words registered fully. "Who's Metcalfe?" he demanded.

"Who's Preston?" asked Sulu.

Carol Marcus sighed and crossed her arms. "I'd say it's time to find a table," she said, "and lay out all our cards."

They cloistered themselves in an empty examination room on the hall where Metcalfe was being kept. Sulu instructed the staff not to disclose Selek's location to anyone—especially anyone claiming to be Starfleet Intelligence. It would hold off his opponent for a few minutes, at any rate.

Having absorbed the data from all sides, Spock steepled his finger in front of him. "As Metcalfe was in disguise, and Starfleet Intelligence came simultaneously to retrieve both him and the child—"

"Or kill the child," interrupted McCoy. "That gorilla didn't look to be in a retrieving mood."

"it is logical to assume that Starfleet wants Preston for study," said Sarek, "and thus would prefer him alive."

"Sure," agreed McCoy, "but outside their control, they'd prefer him... eliminated."

"Very likely," agreed Spock. "My supposition is that Metcalfe was sent here to investigate or verify Preston's existence. That mission was in clear violation of Federation policy toward member planets. It is in Starfleet Intelligence's best interests to remove Metcalfe as quickly and quietly as possible."

"And they want Preston, I presume, because they know of his connection to Genesis?" asked Carol.

Sarek nodded. "Starfleet knew of Saavik's pregnancy from the first. They assigned her to remain on Vulcan so that the baby could receive the best possible care. They had no way of knowing, at the time, of his unusual parentage."

"They only knew he was conceived on Genesis, and thus his DNA could hold the key to perfecting the process," said Saavik.

"Genesis, despite it creators' high hopes and beneficent intentions, came very quickly to be seen as what earth people would call, a 'doomsday weapon,'" Sarek continued. "First the Klingons asserted it's destructive potential, and made it clear they would not tolerate further efforts at development. Then the new administration at Starfleet Command, following the removal of Admiral Morrow, took an almost paranoid view of the Genesis process. They wanted to collect every piece of available data and remove it from general availability. This was seen as necessary to protect the galaxy at large from a terrible weapon, and to protect the Federation from attack by the Klingon and Romulan Empires."

"I take it Preston is considered, 'available data,'" remarked Carol.

"Precisely. That is why Saavik, Amanda and I deemed it best that his existence remain a secret."

"When the child was born, Starfleet was informed that it was stillborn, and the body destroyed according to Vulcan custom."

"And they believed you?" asked Spock.

"It came from an unimpeachable source," Sarek replied blandly.

Spock raised an eyebrow at his father. "You lied."

"I miscalculated," said Sarek.

"I hate to be a gadfly, but that agent is going to start breaking down doors any minute, if he hasn't already," said Sulu. "Hadn't we best be working on a way to hold off SI for a while? If we explained Terry's critical condition to Starfleet Command..."

"A complaint to the Federation Council on the improper activities on Vulcan would also impede their progress," said Sarek.

"Gentlemen," said Spock, "this situation has been dealt with, as it were, 'under the table,' until now. is it wise to bring the facts into the public eye now?"

"You believe that Starfleet Intelligence would reveal Preston's existence to the Council?" asked Sarek.

"It is logical. They view him as a threat to Federation Security. They can easily use the tragedies associated with Genesis to foster fear among the Council members and the public, if necessary. The Council will take a dim view of Vulcan having harbored such information."

"You'd have quite a scandal on your hands, Sarek," said McCoy. "And Starfleet would have the boy in their custody faster'n you can say 'Surak of Vulcan.' Once they have him, he doesn't stand a chance! He could die in the time it takes them to return him to earth."

"Colorfully phrased, but essentially true," said Spock. "For the nonce, anyone who has knowledge of the boy is in danger of being taken into custody. It would be best if we were all... elsewhere. If Dr. Marcus believes Preston's only hope for a cure lies on Pellegrinos, we will have to make arrangements to take him there."

"Ambassador Kamarag isn't about to let you fly into Klingon space," said McCoy. He was quite right. The Ambassador was no admirer of the _Enterprise_ crew, or of Sarek.

"I believe," said Sarek, "that Chancellor Azetbur might grant permission for a research expedition, as a favor to me. It should take only a matter of days."

"What about Metcalfe?" asked Sulu. "From what you've told me, his condition is also critical. What can we do for him?"

"While we await Chancellor Azetbur's permission," said Spock, "I believe we should take Metcalfe to the location I saw in his mind. It seems to me that that place is the key to his problem."

"I have a ship," Sulu said. "What are we waiting for?"

"Starfleet would not approve of my proposed destination." said Spock. "I believe that the only way to help Commander Metcalfe is to take him to the Guardian of Forever."


	10. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Metcalfe, no longer disguised as the Vulcan Selek, awakens on the Excelsior, en route to the Guardian of Forever. Saavik retrieves the book she's had for years, a gift from a man she doesn't remember ever meeting.

Chapter Seven

He opened his eyes to bright lights, though not as bright as the sky of Vulcan. The air was clean, with no scent or taste. The temperature had declared no definite opinions about its nature. The entire atmosphere was aseptically perfect. He was on a ship. Behind him, a soft tone beeped in keeping with his pulse. He recognized the characteristic feel of the table beneath him. He was on a ship, in sickbay.

And two people were looking down at him, two familiar, anxious faces.

"Hikaru..." he said quietly, surprised.

It suddenly occurred to him that he should not have admitted to knowing his old friend. The other face belonged to Dr. McCoy, who still thought he was Selek. He shouldn't break cover. Then, as his body began to take inventory of it parts, he realized that his eyebrows moved the way they always had—they weren't pulled up at an uncomfortable angle. Further, without bringing his hands to his head, he could tell the surgically placed Vulcan ear appliances had been just as surgically removed.

He tried to sit, but the throbbing pain in his head stopped him even before McCoy could reach out to hold him down. At a loss, he asked, "What the hell happened?"

Sulu smiled. "It seems your Vulcan hormones got the better of you."

"That's not very funny." It did, however, begin to re-awaken his memories of his last conscious hours. "Did I cuss out Ambassador Sarek?"

"You did indeed, Commander," said McCoy. "And, by his reports, you did quite a respectable job."

"I take it you recognized me after all?" he asked McCoy.

"No, I couldn't place your face until Sulu told me who you really were. Old age. Impedes the brain function."

"Spock recognized you," said Sulu "He called me, and we pretty much pieced together what had happened—"

"Especially after two of your fellow intelligence goons showed up," McCoy broke in angrily. "What are you doing with that bunch, Metcalfe? You showed promise once."

"Doc—" Sulu said in a warning tone.

"No, Hikaru, I want to hear—Doctor, what goons?"

"The one who tried to kill Commander Saavik's child, and the one who tried to rip you out of a Vulcan hospital! They—"

"Kill Saavik's child? Why—?" He sat up again, quickly this time, and regretted it.

"It's a long story, Terry," Sulu said as he eased Metcalfe back down. "We're still sorting it out. Until we do, we're keeping you out of harm's way. Tell me about your mission on Vulcan."

"I was investigating what the Admiralty believed was a stronghold of Vulcan Separatist activity on Mt. Seleya."

"Did you find one?"

"Not a damned thing. All I found was that Saavik had a sick child there, and that his ailment was tied to the Genesis Project from years back—Damn!" His mind really was slipping. First, he'd blown his cover—or would have, had it not been blown before, now he was spouting classified information. "Dr. McCoy, I hate to insult you, but—"

McCoy bristled. "I'm fully aware of the Genesis Project, Commander. My security rating is still A-1."

"Lucky for me. I said way too much without asking."

Surprisingly, McCoy softened. "You're entitled. You've got a lot going on in your head."

Sulu persisted. "You told Admiral Morrow about the child?"

"I did. He was a lot more interested than I would have expected. As if... " He stopped in mid-sentence, knowing that what he was going to say was a little foolish.

But Sulu finished the thought. "As if that were what he'd sent you there to find, and the Separatists were just a cover story he'd fed you."

Metcalfe nodded. "Yeah. Either we're both on the right track, or we're both paranoid."

Cracking only the barest smile, McCoy said, "Well, I think all you command types are a little paranoid, but you're not wrong this time. Sarek deliberately kept Preston's existence a secret to protect him. He knew that Starfleet would want to get their hooks into the boy if they found out about him."

"And now they've found out," Sulu added.

"Through me."

"You're an excellent spy," Sulu smiled.

Metcalfe didn't feel excellent. He felt as if he'd betrayed Saavik, and it was coming to him more with each passing second what a terrible feeling that was. "Thanks," he said to Sulu. "Doctor, do you really believe one of our operatives tried to kill the boy?"

"I know it, Commander. Think about it: Genesis was the deadliest weapon the Federation ever conceived. They classified it—forbade discussion of it—were willing to let me die rather than return to Genesis. For nine years, our enemies have thought it was a closed book. All but one of the development team is dead, the planet exploded. The only remnant of Genesis is Spock himself, and a study of his DNA showed it was unaffected in the long term. All trace of the project is gone.

"Now, imagine the Romulans learn that a child was produced by the Genesis effect. His very genetic codes contain the secret of this doomsday weapon. Further, suppose they discover that a team of doctors and scientists is trying to save that child."

"Which could be interpreted as perfecting the Genesis process," Metcalfe finished. He dragged a hand through his short hair, resisting an impulse to smack himself on the head. "Damn."

"Can you think of a more effective solution than to eliminate the child?" Sulu asked ruefully.

"No," he sighed. "I can't. So Morrow sent me, unaware, to confirm the kid's existence, and had his assassins standing by. I was the angel of death."

"Your illness may be all that saved Preston's life, Commander," said McCoy. With repressed fury in his tone, he added, "Don't worry, I'm sure they'll still commend you for doing their dirty work."

Sulu's face darkened. "You're outta line, Doc. I've known Terry for ten years. He's not some stormtrooper from Earth's fascist past."

But Metcalfe didn't begrudge the Doctor his anger. He felt a prize fool for letting himself be used. If he hadn't been so angry at Morrow over Abdashi, so focused on finishing this assignment and getting out, he would have suspected something. "You think I don't qualify for the part of stormtrooper, Hikaru? I was just following orders, after all."

"Terry—" Sulu began.

Before Hikaru could deliver one of his patented gentle-but-firm-yet-somehow-upbeat lectures, Metcalfe held up his hand. "Save your breath, friend Captain. This is just another nail in the coffin of my Starfleet career. Doctor, let's change the subject a moment. What is this illness that saved the boy's life?"

"All indications show that your adrenal and testosterone production is elevated to an extraordinary level. Body temperature is surging. The strain on your circulatory system is high, but I've managed to stabilize your condition, so you won't drop dead from cardiac arrest."

"But what's causing all this?"

"If I knew, Commander, you wouldn't be in sickbay. The symptoms are very much like those of _pon far_ in a Vulcan. There is no real human equivalent—at least not one that lasts for any length of time. During human sexual arousal—"

"Are you telling me I'm in _pon far_?" Metcalfe demanded.

"Essentially."

"That's impossible!"

"It's happening." McCoy frowned. "We don't know why. Spock's mind meld and various metabolic inhibitors are keeping it under control, for now. We don't know how long that will help. If it mimics true _pon far_ , the symptoms will intensify."

"And I'll die."

McCoy reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "We won't let that happen, Commander. We have some leads..."

"What?"

McCoy looked uncertain, as if he didn't quite believe the whole thing himself. "Spock believes your mind is somehow... joined... "

"With whose?"

"Lt. Commander Saavik's."

Saavik? The thought of being joined with her somehow, of the others knowing how much his thoughts had focused on her since they'd met, made him uncomfortable. "I don't even know her! I mean, sure, I..."

McCoy cut him off. "Nevertheless, Commander, the bond is there. It's as if you'd both undergone the ceremony Vulcan children go through before marriage. She can't explain it either. Saavik's presence intensifies the symptoms, just as the presence of the bondmate would in true _pon far_. We've kept her away from you until now, but—" He stopped, looking slightly helpless.

"What?" Metcalfe prompted.

"But, to work this out, we'll need to have the two of you together for observation. It will be uncomfortable for you, at times, but Spock thinks the mind meld he performed will help."

"Are you up to seeing her now?" Sulu asked.

Metcalfe shrugged. "I guess. Sure."

He had assumed she was elsewhere. In her quarters, on the bridge, anywhere but right behind the door to the CMO's office. At a call from Sulu, she stepped into the room, accompanied by Spock. Her appearance hit him like blow to the face. Even as a teenager, he'd never felt such intense longing. He looked her up and down, noting the smoothness of her skin, the shape of her legs. Could he actually detect her scent?

He hadn't felt such an attraction since he'd first met Kaya, and even that had been quite different. Kaya had been a friend and confidant, even a rival. Saavik... Saavik felt like a piece of himself that he didn't know had been missing. He wanted to say something, anything, but the power of speech seemed far away.

McCoy's voice jolted him out of a haze of feverish emotions. "Saavik," he asked, "are you picking up any mental impressions?"

She looked Metcalfe in the eye for a moment. Embarrassed, he wanted to look away. What must she think of him? A man who'd appeared from nowhere, lied about his identity, almost gotten her child killed, and now seemed to be bonded to her? The word "revulsion" sprang to his mind.

Her face was completely impassive.

"In the other room, I felt Commander Metcalfe awaken," she said. "I can sense his presence when he is near, more strongly than I can sense another Vulcan's."

"Do you think it could be some sort of bonding?" asked Sulu.

She shook her head. "That is not the way of a true bonding. We would actually be able to read each others' thoughts."

"And yet," said Spock, "your symptoms are those of _pon far_ , Commander." He looked at him pointedly. "I trust you are experiencing significant arousal at this moment?"

Metcalfe blushed fiercely and looked away from Saavik.

"Good god, Spock!" barked McCoy. "Requisition some tact from the ship's stores!"

"The situation must be confronted, Doctor. We must have all available information if we are to aid the Commander. Would you rather spare him embarrassment or save his life?"

Metcalfe considered that question, and decided, at that moment, that he'd rather be spared embarrassment. Death would be infinitely preferable to having Saavik hold him in contempt as some kind of sex-crazed savage.

"Could you just have a little regard for their feelings?" asked McCoy. "You weren't very eager to discuss _pon far_ when you went through it!"

"I was under its influence, and not behaving logically," Spock responded. He looked to Saavik. "Have you considered the possibility that Commander Metcalfe's condition might be alleviated if you were to mate with him?"

It was clear Spock thought it a perfectly innocent question. McCoy swore in several languages, however, and Metcalfe began looking to see for a sheet he might pull over his face.

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" McCoy spat. "Spock, how can you ask either of them to have sex with a total stranger?"

With perfect dignity, Spock said, "I have known many humans who have made a practice of having sex with strangers."

"Captain Spock," Metcalfe said, trying to keep his tone even. "Thank you for the... thought. I don't expect Commander Saavik to do anything of the kind." He tried to make eye contact with her, but discovered she was looking the other way suddenly. For someone whose sexuality was being offered up as a form of therapy, she was surprisingly quiet. Vulcans didn't like to display emotion, he thought. She probably didn't want to say out loud how repugnant she found Metcalfe to be. "I won't even consider that option," he finished. "So it's not worth discussing."

Spock obviously decided that human stubbornness was not worth combatting. "There may be other paths open to us," he said. "We only have to keep you stable for the few days until we reach our destination."

"What is our destination?" Metcalfe asked.

Sulu and Spock exchanged uncomfortable glances. "It is a place I saw in your mind when we melded," said Spock. "Are you familiar with the Guardian of Forever?"

Metcalfe shook his head.

"Knowledge of its existence is restricted to a small party of researchers, and, of course, those who discovered it."

"Namely the crew of the _Enterprise_ —thirty years ago," said McCoy.

"Why is it restricted?" asked Metcalfe. "I'm sure my security clearance allows me to know."

"That is true, but irrelevant in any case," said Spock, "since we are taking you there. It is interesting that you do not know of its existence, however. There was an image of the Guardian in your mind."

"What is this Guardian?" asked Metcalfe. "A being?"

"Of sorts," Spock replied. "The closest description that fits is that it is a living machine which provides a gateway into the past."

"A time machine?" asked Metcalfe.

Spock nodded. "And an archive of the history of the universe. It allows access to individuals who wish to travel through time. It also, unfortunately, allows those individuals the opportunity to change history."

Metcalfe laughed humorlessly. "First, I'm tied up in Genesis, now this. I'm beginning to feel like the villain in the book of Revelation. I take it Starfleet has the planet heavily guarded?"

"There is a research station," said Spock. "They keep watch over the planet. In the event of imminent capture by hostile forces, they have the means to destroy the Guardian—or so we believe . At the very least, they can poison the planet's surface to the extent that the Guardian is not accessible to living beings."

"How do we get in?" asked Metcalfe.

"Finesse," said Sulu. "I'll tell them we're taking over for the ship that's scheduled to do their regular Starfleet inspection tour. That should give us an opportunity to poke around. Fortunately, they get regular visits because of their security status. It's usually a smaller ship, but I don't think they'll question a visit from one of the Guardian's discoverers."

Sulu stood from where he'd been balanced on the edge of the next exam table. "I've gotta get back to the bridge and make sure their regularly scheduled ship isn't going to arrive on top of us." He grinned at Metcalfe. "Anything I can do to make your hospital stay more pleasant? How about that horrible book you used to love so much—'Names of the Beast?'"

" _Number of the Beast_ ," said Metcalfe, offended. "I'd love it if you could come up with a hard copy. I lost mine after _Phoenix_." He'd looked everywhere for it. It was one of his prized possessions, an authentic, printed-on-paper copy of a Robert Heinlein novel. He'd read it a dozen times, taken it with him to the Academy, and on _Phoenix_. Then, when he'd transferred to _Excelsior_ , he couldn't find it. He'd always taken that as a bad omen.

He realized that Saavik was looking at him intensely. Her face had lost its perfect mask of impassivity. Now she looked... puzzled?

"Something wrong, Commander?" he asked.

"Do you have a middle name, Commander Metcalfe?" she asked him.

Not sure what that information had to do with anything they'd been discussing, he answered, "Arthur. Why?"

"Excuse me," she said, and hurried out of the room.

The others watched after her, none of them quite sure what had caused her to ask such an odd question, nor why she had left so quickly. McCoy shook his head. "Vulcans," he muttered, and headed toward the CMO's office with a shrug.

Only a few minutes later, Spock and Sulu both gone to the bridge, and McCoy chatting with _Excelsior_ 's CMO in the next room, Saavik returned. In one hand, she held a book. It was old, its covers made of yellowed cardboard, a fading, but distinguishable painting on the front and back. He recognized it instantly.

"Where—?" he started to ask.

"I had this in my quarters." She handed it to him. "Do you recognize it?"

He smiled and accepted the book. "Of course I recognize it. It's just like the one I used to have." He traced the embossed letters of the words "Number of the Beast" on the cover. "Thanks," he said.

"I did not merely bring it so that you could read it," said Saavik. "I found that book in my cabin on the _Enterprise_ , nine years ago. It was just before I left for Genesis. I didn't know where it had come from, but I kept it, because the inscription puzzled me. Look inside the front cover."

Not sure where this was going, Metcalfe opened the book, and his breath caught. There was an inscription. The handwriting, he knew, was his own. It read, "To Saavik—we will meet again. Remember.—T.A.M."

"Those are your initials," she said.

He nodded, his mind still trying to comprehend what was happening. How had she gotten his book? How could it be inscribed to her, in his handwriting? "It looks like I wrote this, too." He closed the book, shook his head, then looked at her. "Saavik, I don't remember writing this. I don't remember giving it to you, I..."

She faced him, her face still a mask. "I know only that it was placed in my quarters by an unknown person. Could it have been you?"

"If it was, I wasn't in my right mind at the time." He opened the book and read the words again. "'We will meet again.' What the hell does it mean? We never met before now."

"There are three possibilities," she said slowly. "The first is that you did give me the book, that you are lying about never having known me before, that you've actually known me for nine years, and are trying to confuse me."

"Do you believe that?" he said.

"I believe Spock would have detected such deception during your mind meld."

He was relieved. He wouldn't have blamed her if she had believed it. After all, he'd lied to her before. She had every reason to distrust him. Hell, she had every reason to hate him.

"The second possibility is more generous to you, though still not an option you would prefer to consider. It's possible that you are suffering from a mental lapse. You gave me the book nine years ago, for reasons unknown, then forgot that I existed."

"That's unlikely," he said. "That book is very special to me. I only would have given it to someone I—" he broke off. He was about to say that he would give it only to someone he loved. He didn't want to embarrass her.

"I, too, find that possibility unlikely. It would mean you had developed an unhealthy fixation on me and were hoping to arrange an introduction. While it is possible that you saw me from a distance during the years we both attended the Academy, I believe you were on leave when this book appeared in my cabin, and the _Enterprise_ was in deep space, following a battle with Khan. You would not easily have been able to come aboard. This theory also does not explain how we came to be mentally joined. Neither does the first, for that matter."

"So what's the third possibility?"

She sighed, hesitating. "You and I have met before. We mind-melded and formed a permanent bond. For some reason, you felt it appropriate to give me a gift that was of great personal value to you..." she stopped.

"And?" he asked, knowing the impossible answer.

"And," she finished, "we have both forgotten the encounter completely."

As the lift doors opened in front of them onto _Excelsior_ 's bridge, the officers on duty, including Spock's young Vulcan chess partner, Tuvok, snapped to attention. A slight smile of embarrassment came to Sulu's face as he put them at ease.

Spock asked in quiet tones, "Do your officers generally make such a presentation of your arrival on the bridge?"

Janice Rand, who had come to flank her Captain beside his chair, overheard him, and replied, equally quietly, "Don't be so modest, Spock. It's you they're reacting to."

Indeed, a glance around at the bridge officers supported her statement. Each of them, as time permitted, glanced over his or her shoulder to observe their visitor. Spock could remember seeing this kind of behavior from the _Enterprise_ crew only on rare occasions. One occasion had been a visit from Robert April, _Enterprise_ 's legendary first captain.

"These kids graduated the Academy while you were off in space again," said Sulu. "They cut their teeth on the _Enterprise_ 's exploits. It seems we're living legends now."

Janice nodded gravely. "Especially since the Captain's death, and Scotty's disappearance."

Spock could see the pain of the two funerals—both held with empty caskets—was still raw for Janice Rand. He knew it must have been difficult for all of his human friends when Scotty's ship vanished on the way to the retirement colony on Norprin. Jim Kirk had been dead only a few weeks, and another comrade was gone.

As a Vulcan, he had his discipline to help him keep his feelings of loss in check. More, he had the remnants of mind melds with both men to keep their memories alive for him. These were sufficient... most of the time.

"Our ETA for the Time Planet is 47 hours, Captain," Rand said, her professional manner once again firmly in place.

"Did Starfleet Command object to another unscheduled change in your itinerary?"

Sulu opened his mouth, but hesitated before answering. "I—uh—didn't feel it necessary to report the change. We can make up the lost time within two weeks. There won't be any trouble."

Rand frowned disapprovingly, like a mother with an obstinate child. "He means he hopes not. The truth is, Mr. Spock, that Starfleet has cracked down lately. They've gotten almost paranoid about knowing what their ships are up to."

"When they have time to notice," added Sulu. "There's the rub: they're sporadic. Sometimes you can disappear for weeks and no one bats an eyelash. Sometimes they question a five-minute delay in a flight plan." "Which will they do this time?" Rand wondered pointedly.

Sulu shrugged. "We'll find out in time."

"Playing fast and loose with our career again, Hikaru?" she asked.

"Why change at my age?"

"Commander Rand's point is well taken, Captain," said Spock. "I do hope you will not regret assisting us. The political situation since Khitomer is unstable. The Romulans have been surprisingly quiet, and the Klingons are our allies. We are left to seek out opponents amongst our own kind."

Still, Sulu did not seem perturbed. "That's to be expected following major political upheaval. A period of chaos and confusion usually follows. With Starfleet resources more tied up in aiding the Klingons than they ever were in battling them, and with Starfleet presences no longer felt at outpost worlds, there are pockets of corruption and abuse of authority forming everywhere."

Rand glanced at Spock, adding, "We've run into more than our share of planetary governors on former border worlds abusing their authority, or running scams to hold onto it. Starfleet is taking that very seriously, and they're just as worried about potential abuses by their starship officers." She said to Sulu, "That's why I'm worried. Suppose they label you a corrupt captain?"

He patted her hand. "That's why I asked for you on _Excelsior_ , Janice. Somebody needs to do the worrying."

It seemed that Sulu's lack of concern for his political image was a subject of previous controversy. Spock found himself unable to let the argument go without his input. "Your cavalier attitude is comfortingly familiar, Captain; but might I remind you of the wisdom of listening to the advice of your first officer?"

Sulu chuckled. "Touche. Are you sure I never taught you to fence?"


	11. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saavik and Metcalfe try to make sense of their unremembered psychic bond as they make an impossible discovery about the Guardian of Forever. Saavik receives a message from David in a dream.

Chapter Eight

George Fournier swore, bringing his fist down hard on the desk top.

Leaning back in his chair, Harry Morrow regarded the Commodore quietly. "George," he said after a moment, "would you like me to order an extra desk for you to beat up on? Not that I mind having to pick up scattered flimsies every couple of hours, but you're starting to make an indentation."

Fournier glared. "How can you be so calm? Didn't you hear the report? The Vulcans have arrested two of our people!"

" _My_ people," Morrow said reasonably. "They've arrested two of _my_ people. It was to be expected. We'll get them extradited in time."

"In time? My god, Harry! Don't you know what this is doing to Starfleet's credibility? If planetary governments can just snap up our agents at any time for any reason, how can we maintain order?"

"It wasn't 'for any reason,'" said Morrow. "It was because we sent them there in violation of an agreement that all of our member worlds—especially founding members—have with the Council. There have to be checks on the power of every agency. I knew I was taking a risk."

"But, if we exerted a little pressure," said Fournier, "brought it out to the Council that Sarek withheld vital information—"

"—tell the Council that someone may be trying to perfect Genesis?" Morrow finished.

"That would be ill-advised, but—"

"George, we can't have it both ways. We have to place this close to the vest. If we start trying to pull publicity stunts, the whole thing could blow up in our faces." He ran a finger absently over his mustache. "As long as we keep a low profile regarding the child, Sarek will keep a low profile regarding our infiltration of Vulcan. We all have the best interests of the Federation in mind."

"You really believe that?" Fournier asked.

"Yes, George, I do. Sarek—and for that matter Spock and McCoy—have long and commendable service records. I don't think that's all gone to hell, just because we disagree with them on a few points. In this line of work, you always have times when you have to ram something down someone's throat. This is one of those times. Can you blame a family for wanting to protect a child?"

"We have more than one child to think of, Harry. If Genesis gets out of control again, the whole future of the Federation could be at stake. That's too big to be trusted to Kirk's survivors."

Morrow sighed. "That's why I'm working to keep things under our control. "

"But are they?" snapped Fournier. "Have you any idea where Metcalfe is now?"

"Aside from the report that he's been removed from the hospital at Shi Kahr, no. I assume he's with Spock, McCoy and Saavik, wherever they are. We don't know that either. We can't get near Seleya to determine the status of the child." He rubbed his neck, trying to relieve some of the built-up tension from his muscles.

"It's possible they left Vulcan," Morrow went on. "Knowing that _Excelsior_ brought Spock there, it's safe to assume that Sulu would know Metcalfe, and that he might try to help him. He might even bring him home."

"I'd say I'd better keep a close eye on Sulu, then," said Fournier.

He was out of his chair and bounding to the door in one fluid motion.

"And, George," Morrow called after him. When Fournier stopped and looked impatiently back, he said, "Be subtle, huh?"

Terry Metcalfe struggled with a pair of uniform boots. One of the nurses had offered to help him dress, but he'd stubbornly insisted he could do this on his own. Hell, if he couldn't put his clothes on, what was the point of his accompanying a landing party?

It was a foolish argument, and he knew it. The point of his presence on the Time Planet was not to lend his expertise to a scientific expedition, but to give everyone a chance to find out what the hell was wrong with him. It was a slim chance at that, for no one knew why there were images in his subconscious of a secret place he'd never seen.

Still, he didn't want to look like a helpless mental patient, even if he was one. Fortunately for his dignity, Dr. McCoy's metabolic stabilizers and Spock's mind melds were working together to allow him to stand, walk—even carry on conversations—all without flinging the furniture about the room, or passing out on the floor.

The door opened and Saavik came in. She stopped at a distance, observing him.

He attempted a hearty grin. "You can come closer, Commander. I'm under control at the moment."

"I did not wish to cause you any unnecessary discomfort," she said, still keeping her distance.

"I'm finding I can do all right, having you nearby, in limited doses." He suddenly realized how that sounded and said, "I'm sorry. I meant—"

"Do not apologize. Your meaning is clear. I came to tell you we're approaching the Time Planet. Would you like me to show you to the transporter room?"

"I bet it's still where I left it eight years ago, but thanks." He was still struggling with the boot, the muscle aches in his sides and leg hindering him.

She came forward. "I can assist you—"

He held up a hand. "Please," he said, trying to be gentle as the warmth of her psychic presence washed over him and his desire for her rose dramatically. "I can be near you, but I don't think you'd better come into touching range."

She stopped and nodded.

"Actually," he went on, "I'm surprised you're going on the landing party. I mean, hopefully this visit will give me the answer to this unusual problem. You've certainly got more important things to worry about here on the ship."

"I can be of little help to Preston at this point. Dr. McCoy and Dr. Marcus are the ones whose care he requires. I am also involved in your... ailment, and I admit to some curiosity as to its nature."

Spoken like a perfect Vulcan. What quirk of nature could cause him to feel such attraction to someone so oblivious to feelings? But she was beautiful, remarkably, exotically so; and it was possible that he detected a certain vulnerability, a certain need for love, beneath that perfect facade. Deep down, there was just the slightest hint in her tone, in her presence, perhaps even over their weak mental link, that she was feeling for him some of what he felt for her. Then again, maybe that was just wishful thinking, brought on by his condition.

"Do you have any curiosity about me?" he asked.

"I—Spock has told me much about you already."

The boot slipped into place. He sat up and met her eyes. "That's not what I meant. Saavik, this... whatever it is I've got. It's not just a... biological condition. You must know that. It's emotional. Being near you is—"

"Commander, please," she said quickly. "At this point in my life, I am not open to the possibility of a relationship such as you might expect. Preston's condition—"

He nodded, feeling suddenly like an insensitive jerk. "I'm sorry, Saavik. Of course your son is your main concern. I just can't help how I feel. I can't help hoping, if Dr. McCoy finds a cure, I—I don't think I want these feelings to go away." He couldn't look in her eyes anymore, and so gazed at his feet. "It's been a long time since someone has affected me the way you do. I was beginning to think—"

"—that you would never have those feelings for anyone again?" she finished. From her tone, from the look on her face, he knew that she understood because she'd been there.

"You too?" he asked. Then he remembered the obvious. David Marcus was one of Preston's parents, and he was dead. "Of course."

For a moment, he thought he'd made a connection, that she was going to talk to him, really talk. Then the uncertainty left her eyes and she said, "It is close to time to beam down. Let us go."

"Saavik..." he began, trying to think of what words he might use, what feelings he might express, to reestablish that connection. He wanted so much to talk to her, just to spend time with her and find out everything about her. The moment was passed, though. He stood slowly. "Okay. I'm ready."

Spock was waiting for them in the transporter room, his expression guarded as they entered.

"Don't look so concerned, Mr. Spock," Metcalfe said, smiling. "Between you and the Doctor, I think I can handle a simple landing party mission."

"You are quite perceptive in noticing my concern, Commander," Spock replied; "but you are mistaken as to its cause. Preliminary sensor sweeps as we came out of warp revealed an unexpected piece of data about the Time Planet."

"What's wrong?" asked Saavik.

"The orbital station is gone," Spock said.

"Gone?" asked Metcalfe. "Destroyed?"

"No. There is no evidence of its destruction, not even the most minute debris. Nor is there a residual trail of the type which would be left behind if it were towed away by a freighter. It simply is not in its previous location."

"Life signs on the surface?" asked Metcalfe. Spock shook his head. Metcalfe knew practically nothing about the operation here, but an orbital monitoring station would have had a crew of at least a half-dozen. What had happened to them?

"Has Hikaru filed a report, or—"

Spock's expression made him stop. "You know that is not possible, Commander."

"But the crew—! Their families have to be notified. Search parties—"

"Commander, our mission here is quite specific. We have not come to investigate the loss of the orbital facility. Indeed, we did not expect to find it missing. We came to investigate your own connection to the Guardian of Forever. We came with no authority from Starfleet, evading legally authorized representatives of the Federation. If we report this occurrence, we admit our presence here, and jeopardize the success of our mission."

"Spock," said Metcalfe, feeling his face begin to grow hot. His temper was not fully under his own control. "If it's my life against all of those lost, I can't—"

But Spock interrupted again. "Mr. Metcalfe, the Guardian of Forever is an entity which is irrevocably tied to the flow of the time continuum. Danger to the Guardian has vast consequences for a great deal more people than yourself or the crew of the station. Our primary duty is the investigation of what may be a threat to the Guardian."

Metcalfe inhaled deeply, knowing he was right, but stunned by his cold logic. He could sense the raging chorus of hormones within him, driving him to lash out at the older Vulcan, to respond violently in defense of human compassion. His mind retained enough control, however, to quiet his emotions. He nodded understanding.

"I assure you," said Spock, "that we shall forward the information to Starfleet upon completion of our mission."

"Thanks," said Metcalfe, truly appreciative of the reassurance which his superior was not obliged to provide.

"Now," said Spock, turning and pressing a touchpad on the transporter console. The small viewscreen on its surface lit up with an image of the planet below. Spock gestured to a softly pulsing pinpoint of light. "This is a reproduction of a recent sensor sweep of the Time Planet, taken by the last ship to call on the outpost. You can see the sensor image of the Guardian's physical structure, as well as its presence as a disruption in the normal temporal and spatial makeup of this area of space."

"Why are we looking at an old image?" asked Saavik.

"I'll show you," said Spock. He touched another pad, and a new image flashed into place. It was the same area of the surface, showing all the same geographical features. Only the soft, pulsing light of the Guardian was missing.

"What happened to it?" asked Metcalfe.

Spock grimaced. "Unknown. Perhaps it, too, is gone. Or perhaps it is merely inactive, or somehow cloaking itself from our sensors. It is an extremely powerful device."

"Is it safe to beam down and investigate?" asked Saavik.

"Surface conditions do not appear to have changed. The planet still registers as a class-M world in the late stages of physical development."

Metcalfe straightened his heavy coat. "No time like the present, then." He stepped on the pad.

They materialized onto a barren world, where desert sands stretched out to the horizon, and ruins of some long-dead civilization were strewn everywhere. There were loud winds, although they were not overwhelmingly powerful in the immediate area of beam down. They moaned as the moved in and around the bones of fallen buildings, giving the impression of a haunted graveyard.

Spock raised his tricorder and pointed. "There."

Metcalfe and Saavik looked at the spot he indicated. It was sheltered from the winds somewhat by a huge, natural wall of rock. There was a clearing, framed by the stumps of fallen and decaying columns.

"I don't see anything," said Metcalfe.

"Precisely," said Spock. "The Guardian is gone."

"From all you said about it, isn't that impossible?" asked Metcalfe.

"Apparently not," said Spock, "as it has happened."

"Perhaps," said Saavik, "it is actually still here, but obscured from our view."

Spock nodded. "If we stipulate that it could hide from our ship's sensors, it could certainly hide from our eyes."

"What now?" asked Metcalfe, fighting his own disappointment that Spock's only lead to finding a solution to his problem had just vanished.

Spock was rotating slowly, scanning with his tricorder. "I am scanning for temporal distortions on the surface. Assuming the Guardian has not been removed completely from our time stream, I should find evidence of its presence... there."

"You found something?"

"A residual field of temporal energy, as if something very powerful had been turned off, like an old-fashioned light bulb, which still emanated heat and light once the power source was interrupted." He raised an eyebrow. "Interesting."

"What is it?" asked Saavik.

Spock looked up toward the sky. "My readings indicate that the field is not isolated to this area. It leads upward."

"Off the planet?" asked Metcalfe.

"Precisely," said Spock.

"Are you saying the Guardian flew away?"

Spock thought for a moment. "No. Consider, however, what might be required to remove a machine or entity, or any object, which is wedded to the fabric of time-space around it."

"It would take an entity or device at least as powerful as the Guardian itself," said Saavik. "The operation would require sealing off the tears in time and space, and thus would expend a significant amount of the kind of energy which the Guardian emanated when it bridged the past and present."

"Yes," said Spock. He looked at Metcalfe. "The Guardian did not 'fly away,' Commander; but whatever or whomever is responsible for its disappearance is logically to be found at the originating end of that temporal energy trail."

"So we follow the yellow-brick road?"

The faintest hint of a smile played at the corner of Spock's mouth. He recognized the reference. "A figurative, but essentially correct statement. The entity at the other end, may, indeed, be so powerful that we would see him as a wizard."

While Spock signalled for _Excelsior_ to beam them back up, Saavik said quietly to Metcalfe. "Do you suppose that there is an equal possibility that the entity in question might be a humbug?"

The transporter disintegrated Metcalfe with a look of astonishment still on his face. How many Vulcans in the galaxy were familiar with the _Wizard of Oz_?

The main viewer on _Excelsior_ 's bridge projected the results of Spock and Saavik's long range sensor sweep of the Time Planet's immediate neighborhood. Sulu peered at it, a diagram superimposed over the computer archive's starmap, which showed a radiation flare, starting at the Time Planet, moving outward, but not in a straight line. It curved away, arcing like a fishhook, before it disappeared off the screen.

"The concentration of energy strengthens beginning here," said Saavik, manipulating a graphical pointer on the screen. It now pointed at the very bottom of the hook. "We can only project what happens much farther out, since our sensors reach the limit of their range."

"Saavik," Sulu asked, "why the curvature in your projection? Doesn't the trail lead straight away from the planet?"

"No," said Spock. "If you look at this image..." he paused and the screen suddenly flashed to a different image—still a starmap but covering a much greater area. What appeared to be a fishhook in the previous image now looked like the little curl of a tornado funnel, trailing away from the rim, very much like the effect formed when the last of the water goes down a bathtub drain.

"You'll note the funnel effect," began Spock.

"Almost looks like the planet's throwing a lasso," said Janice Rand.

Spock paused. "Indeed. Actually, the analogy I find most fitting is a lighthouse beacon. If the radiation concentration continues as seems to be indicated, our projections show that a concentrated, band-shaped area, with a finite length, is travelling in a circular orbit as shown here."

"And the radiation trail is following it?" asked Sulu. It made him a trifle uncomfortable, as always, to be relying on others for information and analyses of astrophysical phenomena. He was an astrophysicist by training, but he'd abandoned his formal commitment to the field decades ago. He certainly couldn't keep up with Spock on a regular basis. There were tradeoffs to becoming a Starship Captain.

"Not precisely," said Spock in answer to his question. "The trail appears to be in the process of fading away. The orbital path of the energy band appears more stable."

"And the energy band itself?"

Spock shook his head. "No way of knowing at this range."

Sulu settled down into his chair and stroked his chin. A brief detour to the Guardian was one thing. Now it looked as if the only way to continue this particular quest was to go chasing an energy trail halfway across the Federation. His loyalty to Spock knew no bounds, but even Spock could make a mistake. What if this detour led them nowhere?

"Spock," he asked slowly. "Do you really expect to find the Guardian out there in orbit?"

"No, Captain. I expect to find a clue to the Guardian's fate. If there is an entity responsible for its disappearance, I consider it a distinct possibility that we will encounter that entity."

"I'm not sure I want to encounter an entity that could kidnap the Guardian of Forever," said Janice Rand.

Sulu smiled at her, the warm smile of old comrades, each quite accustomed to being talked by the other into doing things against his or her own better judgement. "Are you kidding?" he asked. "Don't you want to at least see what it looks like?"

She shook her head, but her lips curled in a smile, and she chuckled quietly.

"Helm," said Sulu, "time for another brief detour. Plot an intercept course to take us into the path of the... whatever it is. Best speed."

As the helmsman carried out his orders, Rand whirled around from her communications board. "Hikaru," she said urgently, "Priority call from Starfleet. Commodore Fournier wants to talk to you... immediately." She winced at the implication of her own words.

"They've noticed that two and two don't make four," said Sulu.

"It would be difficult not to," said Spock.

Sulu stood. "Take the con, Janice, and pipe that down to my quarters." He turned to Spock. "If I don't take the call, or claim some sort of system failure, they'll know something's up. Care to join me, Captain Spock? I may need a little help stretching the truth."

"Given the urgency of our medical situation, I would think Dr. McCoy might be of greater assistance to you. It might not be wise for me to admit my presence, as yet." He thought for a moment, then added, "Besides, Dr. McCoy is a better liar."

Sulu laughed out loud. "I'll bet he is at that. Janice, ask the Doctor to meet me in my quarters."

McCoy was already waiting for him when Sulu got to his cabin. The doctor spread his hands in characteristic fashion and demanded, "Well? What the hell's the emergency?"

The tone and words were harsh, but the familiarity of the outburst was oddly comforting. "Time to face the inquisition, Doc." Sulu said. "Fournier's calling."

McCoy rolled his eyes. "Heaven help us all. What do we tell him?"

"Just follow my lead." Sulu sat at his desk, spinning the monitor so that McCoy could see it also from the opposite chair. He punched a key, and George Fournier's face flashed onto the small screen. His mouth was drawn into a thin, angry line, and his eyes seem to leap out from the screen in their quest for answers.

Seeing Sulu, he said without preamble, "Captain, I need to know the whereabouts of Commander Metcalfe. Do you have any information?"

Sulu had decided on the walk down to play this as casually as possible. No doubt Fournier considered him to be in blatant violation of orders, even though he'd received no orders regarding Terry Metcalfe. He wasn't going to go on the defensive, though.

"Yes," he said helpfully, "he's on _Excelsior_. He's very ill. The Vulcans couldn't help him, and the officers who came to transport him home were... detained, so I decided to bring Metcalfe home myself. We have excellent medical care available, as you can see."

He motioned for McCoy to move where Fournier could see him. "Commodore Fournier," McCoy drawled with his best Southern gentility.

"Dr. McCoy. What are you doing on _Excelsior_?"

"He's along for the ride to keep an eye on Metcalfe. He was vacationing, but the Vulcans called him in when they discovered—that is, since Terry is human."

Fournier ignored Sulu, speaking to McCoy. "Vacationing on Vulcan, Commander? That's not your style."

"I am a retired officer, sir. I'll thank you to refer to me as 'Doctor.' I'll also remind you, Commodore, that my vacation plans are none of your damned business! For your information, young man, I was visiting with Ambassador Sarek and Lady Amanda. I believe your top secret file on me will reflect that they're old friends of mine!"

"And Dr. Carol Marcus? Is she an old friend of the Ambassador?"

"She's my friend, and she's grieving for Jim Kirk. They were going to get married, as I'm sure you know."

"Where is Dr. Marcus now?"

"On Vulcan. Her services weren't required here."

Fournier chewed his lip for a moment, clearly not believing all that he heard. "Captain, Sulu, what about your science officer? Where is Lt. Commander Saavik?"

"She was granted 30 days leave on Vulcan, Commodore. She's still there."

"Doing what?"

Sulu's felt his chest muscles tighten slightly. He didn't like the inquisitional tone the Commodore was using. He might have been popular in the news media, due to his propensity for stirring speeches and noble posturing, but he treated his officers as though they were perpetually trying to pull one over on him. Sulu let the faintest edge creep into his voice.

"My officers' personal lives are their own business, Commodore. She requested personal leave to which she was entitled. I granted it."

"You don't think it's unusual that she requested leave so soon after coming aboard _Excelsior_?"

"Quite unusual, but not against regulations, Commodore."

"Very well, Captain Sulu. On the matter of your return to Starfleet HQ: what's taking you so long?"

"Sir?"

"Don't play dumb, Captain. If Metcalfe is so sick, why didn't you come straight here? You would have arrived by now!"

"Yes, sir. Circumstances required—"

McCoy leaned in, interrupting. "Rytalyn, Commodore. Commander Metcalfe's condition resembles Rigellian f ever. He needs Rytalyn to stabilize him. I'm sure the Commodore is aware that Rytalyn is a rare mineral. We had to make a detour to the nearest possible source."

Sulu smiled at him in silent thanks for the save.

"I see," said Fournier. "Unfortunately, if you're lying, I can't prove it."

McCoy's face went red. He advanced on the monitor as though he meant to pound it. "Why you young—"

"Doc!" Sulu Barked. McCoy stood silent, fuming.

"Captain Sulu, you will report to me—in person!—in thirty-two hours."

"Sir —"

"Fournier out," the Commodore said forcefully, and the screen went dark.

"Damn," Sulu muttered. He jabbed the comm panel again. "Bridge, what's our ETA for Ambassador Spock's destination?"

"Twenty-six hours, Captain," Janice Rand replied.

"Give it all she's got." He flicked the channel closed, and repeated, "Damn."

"We can't make it where Spock wants to go and get home in time, can we?"

"No. We can't."

"Fournier will have you out of the center seat faster than you can parry a thrust, Captain."

"I know."

"What are you going to do?"

Sulu put his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair. "How long has Terry got, if we don't find a cure?"

"A week is a safe guess."

"And the doctors at Starfleet? Can they—?"

McCoy shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry, Hikaru. If Spock's wild goose chase doesn't find a cure for your friend inside seven days, there's no medicine in heaven or earth that can save him."

"Then my decision is an easy one. I waited years for this ship, but my crew always comes first—even my former crew."

McCoy sat down opposite him and sighed. "I wouldn't worry, Sulu. You know how many times I've sat in the Captain' s cabin and watched Jim decide to throw his career away?"

Sulu studied his old friend for a moment, knowing, indeed, that Jim Kirk had had a knack for getting into such no-win scenarios... and, always, getting back out of them intact. Right up to the very last, when he'd given his life to save a ship full of young officers, VIPs, and two old and dear friends.

"Would you like a drink, Doc?"

McCoy grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."

_Far off in space, it waited. A thing, a machine, a being, a place, a doorway. It was all of these, and none; and it beckoned to Saavik._

_"I'm waiting," it called out. "I'm waiting for you, my love. There's so much you have to know."_

_"My love." No one had called her that in years._

_Terry had._

_No! That had never happened._

_"Yes, Saavik," said the voice from a distance, "it did happen. It might not be documented, might not be a part of the timeline you call reality, might not even be in your memories. But, Saavik, it's the emotional truths that count."_

_"I am a Vulcan!" she decried._

_"No, you're not. You're unique. Vulcan by training, Romulan by birth. Don't you bear the brand of a Romulan warrior?"_

_It was true, she did. Across her shoulder, a white streak of scar tissue from a brand seared into her as an infant. It was the mark of a Romulan family she had no right to claim. Very few people knew about it. Spock, of course, and Dr. McCoy, and other doctors from the Academy._

_And one other._

_"David?"_

_"Of course."_

_"But you died."_

_Laughter rang out, laughter which filled space and time, as if the whole universe and all its history were one vast, cosmic joke._

_"I'm alive, because you wouldn't let me go. I'm waiting for you. Come to me."_

_"But... how do I find you?"_

_"You're already on the right track. Just don't be afraid."_

_"David... I have to help Preston. And Commander Metcalfe—he believes he's bonded with me."_

_"He is."_

_"But that's—"_

_"Impossible? Saavik, all things are possible. Terry Metcalfe couldn't let you go, just as you couldn't let me go. Together, the two of you changed the course of time. Now you have to put it right." This time, the laughter filled David's voice. "I don't think it will be that unpleasant for you. All you have to do is let yourself feel... what you want to feel."_

_"David—if you're alive—"_

_"I'm waiting for you."_

_"But, if you're alive, then Terry—"_

_"I'm waiting... for both of you."_

Saavik awoke in her quarters on _Excelsior_ and looked at the time. In two hours, they would reach their destination. She had to sleep. But she didn't.


	12. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, Chekov shows up! Here we really see how the timeline diverges from the future history written by the team at Pocket Books. I'm proud of the humor I injected into poor Pavel's situation. In other news, Saavik and Metcalfe decide to tackle the Nexus head-on... literally.

Chapter Nine

Once, Starbase Eleven had been one of the busiest centers of activity in the Federation. In the days when Jim Kirk had taken the original Starship _Enterprise_ on a successful five-year exploratory mission, it had been close enough to the edge of known, friendly space to be many ships' major point of contact with the Federation, far enough away from that border to be a safe haven from the very unknown Kirk and his fellows were plunging boldly into.

Now it was a junkyard.

Of course, the correct term for its operation was "excess military equipment inventory and redistribution center," but its small staff of officers knew it for what it was. A junkyard was a junkyard was a junkyard, military jargon notwithstanding. Since the treaty of Khitomer had rendered Starfleet's defensive functions unnecessary in the eyes of the general public, especially since such worthies as the President of the Federation and Operations Chief George Fournier had been so publicly outspoken about "Starfleet's New Golden Age," many weapons systems, light craft, even starships were being pulled out of service and reworked for new functionality.

In charge of it all was Starbase Eleven's chief administrator, Pavel Chekov. Of all the things Chekov had fancied he might become after his years of service under Jim Kirk and Clark Terrell, junkman was not a profession he'd given thought to. He'd expected a command of his own. He would have had it, too, Commodore Fournier had said, except for the downsizing of Starfleet. Now, there were few captaincies available, mostly on long-range exploratory ships, going off on decades-long assignments. Chekov had to face the facts that a security chief in his fifties was not the kind of material the Admiralty wanted for such an assignment.

He had just sifted through the last of the day's new inventory reports and was reviewing his assistant's proposal to convert the base's abandoned battle simulator into a computer-driven, holographic dance suite, when his comm station buzzed for attention.

He regarded it sourly. More and more these days, he resented any attempt to contact him whatsoever. "Ah," he said to the air, "that will no doubt be the new Tsar, calling to beg me to take my place in the revitalization of the Motherland."

His staff was beginning to worry, he knew, about how much the boss talked to himself—more than he talked to anyone else.

He flicked on the monitor. "What?" he demanded. "If it doesn't have an inventory number, sell it to the Orions, but give ten percent to the Christmas party fund!"

His staff was also beginning to worry, he knew, about his unorthodox way of answering incoming calls.

"Hello Pavel," said Hikaru Sulu from the monitor screen.

For the first time in weeks, a smile spread across Chekov's face. "Hikaru! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I need your help with something here, Pavel," his friend said seriously.

"Ah! Give me your coordinates! I'll come right out. I've got three almost-new warp fighters standing by! Only ever used in war-gaming. Probably by little old ladies. They certainly can spare me here for a month or twelve."

"That bad?"

"I'd say I was dying of the boredom—but one of my officers might inventory me and stick me on a shelf as salvage."

"We started tracking a surge of temporal radiation yesterday. We followed it to its projected endpoint, and there's something here I need identified. The records pertaining to Captain Kirk's disappearance have been sealed."

That certainly took the conversation on a mysterious track. Chekov's hackles raised. "I know. I helped confiscate the recordings the reporters made. I felt like an imperialist stormtrooper."

"I need to know if you recognize this."

The image of Sulu flashed off the screen, and what took its place, broadcast, as he knew it was, by _Excelsior_ 's forward sensor array, chilled Pavel Chekov to the marrow of his bones. He felt as if he were staring into the pit of hell, and the murderer of an old friend was staring back, mocking him. It was very much as he had remembered it, as he'd seen it in his nightmares, a writhing, coruscating mass of raw energy, coiling like a venomous snake through the vacuum of space.

"Bozhe Moi!" he muttered. "That's it."

Sulu came back onscreen. "The thing that destroyed the El Aurian ships? And killed the Captain?"

"Believe me, Hikaru, I will never forget what it looked like. Is it still moving?" What the hell was _Excelsior_ doing anywhere near that damned thing?

Chekov's surprise raised exponentially when Spock stepped into the picture next to Sulu. "It seems to be following the same course it was when you encountered it, Commander."

"Mr. Spock! What's going on out there?"

"It is... best not discussed over an unsecured channel, Chekov. Suffice it to say, we have business with the energy ribbon."

"I hardly think it will be open to diplomatic negotiation, sir."

"Indeed. You were able to question some of the El Aurian survivors, I believe?"

"Yes. They told... some very strange tales."

"Please elucidate."

"They claimed to have been pulled away from their ships, to another dimension."

Spock, characteristically, was fascinated. "And they survived there, without benefit of a ship or environment suits?"

"So they claimed," said Chekov irritably. "Remember, Mr. Spock, they were traumatized. They were probably hallucinating—"

"It would be a convenient explanation."

This situation did not call for Spock's even-tempered analysis. The thing—whatever it was—was a proven killer. "Hikaru—keep _Excelsior_ away from that thing at all costs!"

"I intend to, Pavel. We've already measured heavy gravimetric forces at play in the surrounding area. Any ship entering that would be ripped to pieces in minutes. It's just as Demora described it to me. That's why I called you."

"Well," said Chekov, little reassured. "Don't forget it killed Captain Kirk."

"We shall not," said Spock. Then his eyebrow raised inquisitively. "Tell me, Commander, do you, in fact have access to three warp-fighters? Or was that merely a 'little joke?'"

"No, sir. I mean yes—I have them here. Surely you don't want to buy one? We're going to strip the weapons and sell them to independent prospectors."

"I am... merely gathering data, Commander. One never knows when information might prove useful. Thank you for your assistance."

"I'll be in touch, Pav," said Sulu.

Chekov nodded. "Any time. Really. I mean it."

He broke the connection, wondering what his friends were up to. Why would Spock ask about a ship? Despite his anxiety at seeing the energy ribbon again, his curiosity was piqued, and with it, that familiar feeling of happy usefulness he hadn't felt since the _Enterprise_ had been decommissioned. He was worried about Spock and Hikaru, but it was a welcome worry, like the wariness of an old warrior, readying himself once again for combat.

Old training died hard. If Mr. Spock was interested in a ship, it was best to have it inspected and ready for travel... just in case. He stood, stretched, and walked briskly out of his office toward the hangar deck. His staff would wonder, he knew, why the boss was suddenly whistling Tchaikovsky in the corridors.

"You believe the ribbon to be some kind of gateway, don't you?" Saavik asked Spock.

Sulu had called a meeting in the briefing room, deciding, no doubt, that his bridge crew knew too much already about this questionable mission. Sulu, Spock, Janice Rand and Saavik were there, and McCoy had brought Terry Metcalfe in. Since he was the reason they were here.

"That is what the El Aurians described it to be. Current observation suggests that it is related to the Guardian, which we know to be a gateway. Further, I have concluded that the ribbon is a relatively new phenomenon. Its current projected heading would carry it through this section of the galaxy every 39.1years. Had it passed through Federation space 39.1 years ago, we would know of it."

Saavik looked at their diagram of the ribbon's extended orbit. "Is it possible that it is a phenomenon created by the Guardian?" she asked.

"We can only speculate at this point," said Spock. "Although one wonders what the purpose of such a contrivance would be."

"Maybe the Guardian's collecting specimens," said McCoy.

"It could certainly find a less dangerous way to do it," said Rand.

"Whatever its purpose," said Spock, "we will have to act quickly. Its velocity is near the speed of light, and it will pass out of Federation space in 14.23 weeks. Its course will carry it beyond the galactic rim before it returns. We have a limited window of time in which to interact with it."

"Interact with it?" demanded McCoy. "Isn't that a little like interacting with a naked singularity?"

"Indeed," Spock agreed. "Many of the same factors come into play. According to our observations, any ship which comes too close will be destroyed by its intense gravity field."

"Then it's not a very practical gateway," said Metcalfe.

"Not for the approaching ship, no," said Spock. "But the El Aurians who were beamed away from their ship before its destruction claimed that they were passing through the gateway, even as the _Enterprise_ -B's transporters locked onto them."

"Meaning the ones who were left behind actually may have made it through the gateway alive?"

"So the survivors claimed."

"So," asked Metcalfe, "where did they go?"

"That," said Spock, "is the significant variable in our analysis. We can pass through the gateway—we believe we have even contrived a way of doing so that will not cost us a ship—but we do not know where we would find ourselves, nor if we could return to our point of origin."

"Sounds like a one-way trip to hell," said McCoy. "How do you propose sending people through without endangering the ship?"

Sulu called their attention, again, to the viewer. He played with the control pad in front of him and shifted the image on the screen from a tactical display to an actual forward view of the energy ribbon. He lit a pointer on the screen and indicated an area of dark patches between the ship and the ribbon.

"There's an asteroid field, very small, in the path of the ribbon. On its projected course, the ribbon will pass through the asteroid field in two hours, twenty-three minutes. It will decimate the field itself."

Spock nodded. "Captain Sulu and I believe that individuals, wearing environment suits and stationed on one of the large asteroids, will be able to pass into the gateway before the field itself is destroyed."

"That's insane!" blustered McCoy. "Suppose the people out there don't pass through the gateway?"

"They will die," said Spock simply.

Next to McCoy, Metcalfe snorted a soft, derisive laugh.

"Don't worry, Commander," said McCoy, "you don't have to do this."

"No," said Metcalfe. "I can stay here and go mad from a chemical imbalance and die a babbling idiot. At least this way I have a chance of finding out what's happened to me. If Captain Spock is wrong, I'll be spared the indignity of having you all see me lose my mind. I was laughing at the clear-cut nature of the decision: get well or die."

"The situation might not even be that bad," said Sulu. "We can equip you with a communicator and transponder. If things go wrong, you can call for beamout. If we don't hear from you, we can pull you out in 24-hours with the transponder signal."

"If it can pass through the ribbon's gateway," added Metcalfe.

"That's a big if," said McCoy. "Not to mention the fact that you're barely capable standing up straight for five minutes without a head rush. Suppose you pass out?"

"Doctor—" Metcalfe began.

"The Doctor is correct, Commander, " Spock interrupted.

"Duck everyone," muttered McCoy, "the Apocalypse is coming fast!"

Spock gave an ever-so-subtle roll of his eyes before continuing. "Commander Metcalfe, your ill health precludes your attempting the transition alone. I shall accompany you."

"No!" Everyone turned, and Saavik realized she had practically shouted her objection. Spock, particularly, looked surprised, if not disapproving. "Spock is needed here, with Preston."

"As are you," said Spock. "You are the most knowledgeable regarding his medical history. In addition, you have an obligation as a parent—"

"—but I cannot match your scientific ability," Saavik interrupted. "I am a competent science officer, but not the force for innovative solutions which you are. I can contribute only evidence to the fight to save Preston, not solutions. And my evidence is all recorded. As to parentage... I understand that you do not accept Preston as your son, and I do not debate the issue. A parent is of less use, at this point, than a skilled researcher."

Spock looked at her for a long time. She knew he must be questioning her reasons for wanting to go with Metcalfe. Any other parent, in any other situation, would do whatever was possible to avoid being taken from the side of her child. In this case, however, the troubling dreams of the past few days had to be taken into account. She hadn't told Spock, or anyone, about them; so it was natural if it appeared to others that her decision was unexpected or unfounded. She couldn't deny the message of her dreams, however. Vulcans did not dream for no reason. The irrational images of the mind were extremely important to understanding subconscious motivation. More, in a telepathic race, they could facilitate non-conscious communication.

In her recent dreams, Terry Metcalfe had called to her through a bond they didn't know existed, but obviously was real. And last night, through a bond that should have died ages ago, David Marcus had called to her as well.

Was it wishful thinking, to believe the dead could speak in dreams? The Vulcan dead could, of course. Spock's katra had communicated with her after his death. Was there something in the human mind that lived on as well? Their concept of a soul?

Were she to cling to the hard and fast facts, her decision would be easy. Metcalfe was not her responsibility, David was dead, and Preston needed her. But the voice in her mind reminded her that emotional truths could not be disregarded. Something was calling to her from Terry Metcalfe's mind, and something was calling to both of them from beyond the gateway that the energy ribbon contained. She was convinced that only she and Metcalfe could find the answers that the ribbon had to offer. And what did Spock have to say?

"I cannot dispute her logic."

She looked to Metcalfe beside her. He managed a weak smile. "Hope you've had all your shots, Commander Saavik. It's rumored I bite."

Spock watched as Sulu pressed a hypo against Saavik and Metcalfe's arms, inserting a transponder by which they could be retrieved, hopefully, should their communicators fail. Then Sulu pointed to the communicator plates on the wrists of each of their bulky space suits.

"The communicators are programmed with a deadman switch," he said. "They automatically signal for beamup every half minute, unless you cancel it. If you're rendered unconscious, we'll pull you back within a half minute."

"And if we're dead, at least you'll have bodies for the funeral," said Metcalfe.

Sulu tried his best to smile at that harsh fact. "You always were the voice of doom, Metcalfe."

Rand, who had supplanted the transporter chief at the console, said, "The transponders will broadcast a signal constantly, in case your communicators are destroyed. One way or another, we'll get you back."

"Unless," said Spock, "the gateway takes you to a location beyond their range."

"Well," said Metcalfe, "if that's the case, let's hope they have decent hotels, because I doubt we'll be coming back soon."

"Indeed," said Spock. He looked to Saavik. She remained silent, as was her norm now, in his presence. He raised his hand in Vulcan salute to both of them. "In any event, may both of you live long and prosper."

"Thank you, Captain," said Metcalfe.

Saavik returned the salute and said quietly, "Peace and long life to all of you. I hope our paths cross again. If not..." she surveyed the room and was careful to speak to no one of them in particular. "Please care for my son."

"We will, honey," McCoy said.

Sulu clapped Metcalfe on the shoulder. "You ready?" he asked.

"Almost," said Metcalfe. He turned to Saavik. "You don't have to do this. I know you have other responsibilities."

She looked at him levelly. "There are questions that must be answered—for both of us." She closed the shield on her helmet and mounted the pad. Metcalfe did the same.

"Ready when you are," he said to Sulu.

Sulu nodded to Rand, and the two of them disappeared in the wash of light from the transporter. Finished her job, Rand came around to stand with Sulu, wrapping an arm around him. He squeezed her shoulder and smiled. "Let's see what happens." They crossed to the monitor on the wall, and he flicked it on to a display of the ribbon in front of _Excelsior_.

The asteroid field was clearly visible from this angle, with the writhing mass of energy that was the ribbon beyond, silhouetting the asteroids like coals in an open furnace. Which one held Metcalfe and Saavik in the fragile shells of their space suits, they couldn't see. It made little difference, of course. When the ribbon moved over one, it would move over all.

Within minutes, it engulfed them. As predicted, the sheer force of gravity exerted by the anomaly began to tear at the very molecular cohesion of the chunks of wandering matter. Small bits fell away at first, then larger chunks began to separate from the bodies of the asteroids. Finally, one by one, the largest shattered into fragments too small for the ship's sensors to register.

Spock saw tears streaming down Janice Rand's cheeks.

"We didn't receive a signal," she whispered. "What if their communicators were destroyed? We may have just sentenced both of them to death."

Spock nodded. "Time will tell."

But all it would tell them, he knew, was whether or not Saavik and Metcalfe would return. If they didn't, no one had anyway of knowing if they had died in the destruction of the asteroid field, or if they would live out their lives on some alien world, or in some alien universe.

He found the uncertainty extremely disconcerting.

Some time later, Spock entered _Excelsior_ 's sickbay and was not surprised to be greeted by McCoy. _Excelsior_ 's own CMO, duly impressed by the elder physician's presence on board, had granted him the run of the facilities. Spock found it hard to imagine that McCoy, at a younger age, would ever have allowed anyone so much authority in his domain.

"Did those two kids really throw themselves into that thing?"

"They did."

"You think we'll ever see them again?"

"Unknown."

"What possesses a mother to leave her child and go dashing into some unknown phenomenon, based solely on images in the mind of a disturbed patient?"

"Our research indicates that the energy ribbon is a gateway. It will not harm them."

"So you think. But even so, they have no way of coming back. What about the boy? Has Saavik considered that she might be orphaning her son?"

"Doctor, Commander Metcalfe has no choice, as you know."

"But Saavik—"

"Saavik was raised as a Vulcan. Whether she accepts that cultural identity or not, it would be against her every moral precept to allow another to die in _pon far_ when they are bonded."

"But they're not bonded!"

"The evidence is to the contrary. Bonds can be sublimated. Forgotten. They can never be broken while both partners live. I do not understand how the situation has come to be, but I do understand its implications. So does Saavik. Just as her beliefs necessitated the physical bonding on Genesis—"

"With you!"

"With my physical body, yes. That is not relevant to—"

"The hell it isn't relevant! Listen to yourself! 'The physical bonding on Genesis!' That's a hell of a way to refer to an act of love that produced a child!"

This was the first time in a decade that McCoy had attempted to discuss what had happened between Spock and Saavik on Genesis. Once, he would have wheedled Spock ceaselessly over the fact that he had been forced into having sex with a fellow officer. Since McCoy had received his _katra_ , however, it seemed that their continuing verbal combat knew some boundaries. There were, as Jim Kirk would have said, some punches considered to be 'below the belt.'

Perhaps McCoy knew of Spock's ambivalence about what happened on Genesis. Perhaps he had actually considered Spock's feelings, and not attempted to discuss a painful subject with him. Of course, Spock wasn't absolutely certain when McCoy had deduced that he and Saavik had gone through _pon far_ together, but it was surely before Preston's existence had forced the knowledge on them all.

Now, also in Jim Kirk's words, all bets were off. McCoy was angry, and, for once, Spock could understand why. The Vulcan attitude towards parentage was difficult for a human to comprehend; and certainly, in this case, it came across as a shirking of responsibility. Still, McCoy's reference to 'an act of love' was completely erroneous.

"Must you be so ceaselessly melodramatic, Doctor? Saavik's actions were dictated, then as now, by logic."

McCoy quieted, but his tone was still insistent. "Believe what you want, my Vulcan friend. That girl loves you—always has. As for her actions now... They may not be as logical as you think."

"Meaning what?"

"Metcalfe's in love with her. He can't help himself. Maybe it's catching."

"Doctor, this may be a revelation for you, coming from me as it does; but love is not a contagious disease."

"No? Believe me, Spock, it takes more than logic to make a parent leave a child behind. But then, I suppose you know all about that."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You do buy into that Vulcan bull that says Preston is not your son."

"He is not. My _katra_ —"

"I know all about your _katra,_ Spock. I know what Vulcan logic says. I also know you're half human, and human decency says that you should accept that little boy as your own."

In the past, when McCoy's anger had merely baffled Spock, he had used avoidance as a countermeasure. It had usually proved effective. Now, when he was uncertain how he himself felt about his actions, he knew of nothing to do but rely on proven methods. He fixed the Doctor with a blank look and asked, "Shall we turn to our research?"

McCoy frowned. "I take it back. I don't know everything about your _katra_."

"No?"

"When I carried your soul around in my head, I learned a lot about the feelings you hid away in there. Until now, I didn't know cowardice was one of them."

McCoy spun on his heel and went into the lab. It was a long time before Spock followed him.


	13. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Metcalfe and Saavik find themselves in the Nexus, where they encounter an old friend who shows them the history they've forgotten; friendship deepens between McCoy and Carol Marcus; Preston Kirk Marcus takes a startling turn.

Chapter Ten

The terrible pressure had stopped now. Within moments, Metcalfe realized he didn't even know when it had started, or from where it had come. He had known... hadn't he? He had come here for a reason... come where? Something was wrong...

No... nothing was wrong... he had no worries...

Waves lapped nearby, a familiar, comforting sound which he hadn't heard in all too long. He was encircled in a blanket of warmth, like a hot breeze blowing over him, taking away the first chill of autumn air. The heat was concentrated on the front of his body, like intense sunlight, or a fire. A fire! Yes, that was it. And his hand was growing hot—

"Shit!"

Terry Metcalfe dropped the log he had been holding inside the wood stove. Where had his mind gone? He'd nearly burned off the skin of his hand, holding it over the glowing coals.

"Did you injure yourself?"

Saavik stood by the huge window which looked out on the coastline from the dining room, eyeing him with concern.

He inspected his hand. There was a pinkish patch which looked like sunburn, but nothing more severe. "No. I just—I guess I just sort of tuned out. Not a good thing to do, when stoking a fire, huh?"

She crossed quickly to him, knelt, and took his hand to see for herself, turning it over in her own. The heat of her flesh against his, a different heat altogether from that of the fire, somehow soothed his pain. She seemed satisfied that he would live.

"Dr. McCoy would not be happy if you injured yourself while on vacation."

Vacation? But... his mind reeled. He knew where they were, but it was as if he'd just... appeared here. He looked around, taking in the familiar surroundings he'd not seen in so long. "This... this is my grandfather's house. My god!" He went to the window and gazed out at the rolling Atlantic coastline. The afternoon sun cast the shadow of the house on the sand and grass below. As always, one shadow stretched long past that cast by the rest of the structure. Looking up and to his left, he saw the tower of the outdated structure which had so fascinated him as a child. "The lighthouse and everything! How did we—?"

"We've been here for two days," she said in mild surprise at his question. "It was your idea."

"We—of course. We're on leave from _Enterprise_." It was all filtering back in. He felt as if he'd been deeply asleep, dreaming of a totally different life.

"Are you sure you are all right? You seem disoriented."

"I guess I do. It's as if I... forgot where we were—who we were!"

She smiled and came to lay her hands on his shoulders, and the electric flow of her thoughts and feelings washed happily over him. "Then I shall remind you—we are the helmsman and navigator of the starship _Enterprise_ , awarded two weeks leave by Admiral Kirk in conjunction with our promotions to Lt. Commander. You wanted to show me your house."

"Mine? Oh, I guess I do own it." He looked around. Of course. His grandfather had died shortly after he joined Starfleet. The house had come to him in the will. "I just hadn't had time to..."

"Let me signal Dr. McCoy. I know the ship can locate him—"

Her words of before suddenly registered, and a flash of wrongness came to him. "Admiral Kirk granted—? You mean Captain Kirk! He's dead!"

Saavik raised an eyebrow. "That will come as a surprise to him. You are not well. Please, my love, let me—"

She moved around him, toward the comm panel on the wall. As she did so, she brushed one hand over his cheek affectionately. The touch inflamed him. He reached out for her, wrapping both arms around her shoulders and pulling her close. Without conscious thought, his lips went to hers, as if that were there accustomed place.

When the kiss ended, she pulled back to look at him. "Did that help you recover your memory?"

He laughed. "It made me not care whether I had a memory or not. I'm sorry, Saavik, it's just that... I know where and when we are, but I keep getting... flashes of memory. Of some other memories, that don't fit here. I—this... this is what I want. What I've always wanted. To be part of the _Enterprise_ crew, to have a home—"

"You do have it, Terry. You've had it for some time."

He shook his head and stepped away from her, trying to reconcile ghosts of memories with real memories which seemed suddenly alien. "It feels wrong. Good, but wrong. I feel as if I'm... someone else—someone who never served on the _Enterprise_ , someone who knows James T. Kirk is dead, someone who... doesn't know you."

"Terry—"

He snapped his fingers, a puzzle piece falling into place in his mind. There was a way to know which set of memories was accurate. "Kirk. If this is real, then Kirk is—where is he?"

"What? He is... on the _Enterprise_ , supervising the refit."

He went to the comm panel, opening the pine doors with black strap-iron hinges which obscured its presence, maintaining the illusion that the house existed in another century. His grandfather had been perfectly happy with technology, he just hadn't wanted it in his face all the time. He keyed the call sequence for the _Enterprise_. A young Caitian female appeared on the screen. He hadn't met...

...yes, he knew her. Her name was M'Saar.

"This is Special op—this is Metcalfe. Let me speak to the Captain."

Saavik came quickly up behind him. "Terry—"

But her words were cut off as the screen image changed and another face appeared on the screen, a familiar face. "Kirk here."

Metcalfe stood speechless. However much all of this felt right, however much he wanted to believe what he saw, part of him knew that James T. Kirk was dead. This could not be happening.

The impossible image of the dead man smiled and tossed a chunk of celery from the lunch tray in front of him into his mouth. "What's the matter, Metcalfe? R & R too stressful after all that time in space?"

"Captain Kirk!"

Kirk grimaced. "Still Admiral, I'm afraid. Something's wrong—what is it?"

Saavik leaned around Metcalfe and said calmly. "Nothing is wrong, Admiral, Commander Metcalfe injured himself. He's a bit disoriented."

Kirk nodded. "Dr. Chapel's on duty, if—"

"This is not happening!" Metcalfe said insistently.

"Terry—" Saavik began.

"Saavik, I have the clearance—I saw the tapes. Maybe you don't believe it, but I saw James T. Kirk blown out into vacuum! It was on the _Enterprise_ flight recorder. I don't know who you are, sir, but you cannot be James Kirk."

From the screen, the subject of discussion said sternly, "You seem committed to your opinion."

Metcalfe ignored him and took Saavik by the arms. It was all coming back to him now. He knew that what they were seeing was manufactured somehow. He knew which memories were real. They'd come here through a gateway, an energy ribbon in space. It had destroyed the asteroid on which they stood, and suddenly they'd been here. "Saavik! Remember! You came here with me to find answers! We came to find out why we were bonded without our knowledge. We can't stay. We can't live out some fantasy life!"

She shook her head, disbelief, even fear in her eyes. "I—"

"We've got to get back to _Excelsior_ and get your son to Pellegrinos!"

"My son... Preston... I..." The stilted litany ceased, and she looked at him, her face suddenly composed. In that instant, she seemed to age years. "Commander Metcalfe?"

He nodded sadly. "It would seem the spell is broken."

"Indeed." She looked around. "This is not our reality."

"No. The question is, what is it?"

"I wanted to believe it," she said bitterly, talking more to herself than him. "I wanted to escape, to run away from my responsibilities—"

He started to reach out to her, but remembered that they truly were strangers, and stopped. "Easy, Saavik—"

Her eyes were hard and angry as she looked at him. "The Romulan half of me is so strong, it's made me want to flee the fact of Preston's illness. It's made me desperate... afraid."

"We're in an hallucination," he said sharply. "Don't beat yourself up."

She nodded and looked as though she were trying to take his advice. "What is the purpose of this place?"

"It's many things to many people," said a voice from the door by the fireplace.

They both looked up. James Kirk stood before them, in uniform, having just come from the next room. This was not the Kirk from the monitor, though, not the Admiral still in command of the _Enterprise_. This was Kirk as he'd looked following his retirement, as he'd looked on the news broadcasts of the launch of the _Enterprise_ -B. This was the James Kirk who'd just died.

"Captain!" said Saavik in surprise. "But—"

"—but I'm dead? So I am, in our universe, but this," he spread his hands in an encompassing gesture, "is not our universe. This is the Nexus."

"You're just another hallucination."

"No, Metcalfe. You're right—I was blown into space—but not into vacuum. I travelled through the gateway just as you did, just as the El Aurians did. I arrived here alive."

"Where does the gateway lead?"

"Here. The Nexus. Just what it is, I can't explain. In some ways, it's one giant holographic amusement park."

"Can we leave?" asked Metcalfe.

"Anytime," said Kirk.

Metcalfe turned to Saavik. "Then maybe we'd better—"

"Slow down, Commander. When I said you could leave anytime, I meant it quite literally. From the Nexus, you can re-enter our universe at any point in time you wish. It doesn't matter how long you stay, you can go back when you came from, or before, at your choosing."

"Like the Guardian," Saavik observed.

Kirk nodded. "Like the Guardian."

"And is there a connection between the two?" she asked.

"I can't tell you that, except to tell you that the answers you were looking for on the Time Planet are here. I can show you how to find them."

"Did you... summon us here? Did you put the image of the Guardian in Terry's mind?"

"No," said Kirk. "You were summoned here. I can't say by whom."

"But you can show us how this... bond between us came to be," said Metcalfe. "How?"

"Right now, you're living a life you might have lived, but didn't. You can go back and see how it began. I think seeing the past—as this version of reality knows it—will answer your questions." He gestured for them to follow him through the doorway. "Come with me."

Metcalfe and Saavik followed. As they stepped through the door, reality—or what had looked like reality—vanished from around them.

"Are you out of your mind?"

Carol Marcus looked at him, not offended by his outburst because she was accustomed to them. Still, she clearly wasn't certain what to say in return. McCoy immediately wanted to apologize, but Spock cut him off before he could.

"Dr. Marcus's suggestion is actually quite sound," Spock said. "Infusing a small amount of protomatter into Preston's system will temporarily improve his condition and stabilize him."

"But it's the protomatter that's killing him!" McCoy insisted.

"Leonard," said Carol, the exhaustion of the last few days beginning to taint her voice, "we know that. But it's the process of cell growth in every creature which eventually leads it to age and die. We're designed for failure."

McCoy nodded, sighing. He hoped she wasn't angry at him now. "It just seems like we're digging ourselves deeper into the pit when we should be climbing out," he said.

She put a sympathetic arm around his shoulders. "I know, Leonard," she said gently. "But there isn't much else we can do, except keep him going until..." She trailed off, then looked desperately at Spock, hoping, no doubt, that he would have some comfort to offer. Perhaps he had some assurance that Saavik and Metcalfe would be back within the twenty-four hours they had allotted. If they weren't back, they would continue without them, for Preston's sake. It would just be that much more painful a journey to Pellegrinos, and still a journey which could end in failure.

Spock said nothing

"Well," said Carol, patting McCoy's hand and straightening to arch her tired back, "the protomatter should keep him hanging on long enough for us to get to Pellegrinos. Beyond that, I'd say we have a week or so to find something else. Spock, do you think we can synthesize the protomatter with the facilities on board?"

"I am certain we can, Doctor. I have produced it under similar circumstances." He surveyed his human colleagues. "And, I am capable of carrying out the necessary steps unassisted. Both of you are in need of rest. I will alert you when I have completed the synthesis."

McCoy didn't even feel up to a playful barb against the Vulcan at the moment. He just nodded headed for the door. "Come on, Carol... he's right for a change. We need to take a break."

She hesitated, looking from one of them to the other. "I couldn't sleep now."

"Then let's go grab a cup of coffee in the lounge," urged McCoy. Really, he didn't want to sleep either. He wanted to talk to her, to apologize for his earlier harshness, to be a human for a few minutes, instead of a lifesaving machine.

"You'll contact us immediately?" Carol asked Spock.

"I will."

"Come on," said McCoy, reaching for her hand, "Doctor's orders."

She reluctantly followed him into the corridor. As they walked slowly toward the turbo lift, she asked, "What do you really think, Leonard? Do we have a prayer?"

He tried to smile. "We always have a prayer. I guess the question is, 'does the almighty have an answer?'"

"And is it the one we want to hear? Sometimes I wonder if all the gods anyone ever worshipped are punishing me for the incredible hubris of trying to steal their thunder and create worlds. I wanted Genesis to be a new start for the human race. Instead, it's brought death to everyone it touched."

"Not everyone. It brought Spock back. It gave you Preston."

"True enough. But Spock would never have died to begin with without Genesis, and Preston hasn't lived outside that damned life support chamber. Not a life for a little boy. Bad enough his father is dead, now the mother he never knew has gone off into some kind of cosmic anomaly... Leonard, do you think they'll come back?"

"I wish I knew. Spock seems to believe they might, but... " he didn't want to finish the thought, didn't want to cause her any more pain.

"I know what you're thinking," she said.

He hoped she was wrong. "Oh?"

"You're thinking that Jim fell into that thing, and he didn't come back."

She wasn't wrong. "Yeah."

For a moment they were silent. Well, what else was there to say? Jim was dead, lost to both of them; and the thing that took him away, leaving a bigger hole in their lives than either of them ever could have imagined, was floating a few kilometers away. It was like peering into an open grave.

"I wish Jim could have seen Preston," she said as they reached the observation lounge. Funny that they were going to escape their stress by getting the best view of the open grave, thought McCoy.

"Imagine Jim becoming a grandfather ahead of me," he said.

"It's a pity Jim couldn't have known him earlier. He would have been a wonderful grandfather, especially later in his life, when he had time."

She seated herself on one of the couches while he retrieved two cups of coffee from the food selector. Colombian. Strong. Black. She was a woman after his own heart when it came to coffee. She liked it with an attitude.

When he'd seated himself beside her, he asked, "How do you think he would have dealt with what we're facing now?"

She laughed. It was refreshing—and pleasant—to hear. "Now? He'd be alternating between stalking back and forth on the bridge, haranguing Sarek for not getting us our clearance faster, and demanding to know why we hadn't found a cure yet."

McCoy chuckled softly. "Yep, that about sums it up. Except we might be on our way to Pellegrinos now."

"I don't doubt it. Leonard? Was it... difficult? Working for Jim when he got so demanding?"

"Oh yeah. It was also difficult working for Spock when he refused to sleep for a week and focused his entire being on a project. And I bet it was difficult working for me when I barked at everyone in sight over my own damned frustration at everything not working out just right the first time."

"I don't think you bark, Leonard."

"No? What d'you call what I just did at you over the protomatter?"

"Venting. We're all tired."

"I'm still sorry. You don't deserve to be talked to that way."

"Apology accepted. To make up for it, you can pay for the coffee."

"That is illogical, Doctor Marcus. One does not exchange currency for goods received on a Starfleet vessel."

She slapped playfully at his knee. "Stop. You really have known him forever, haven't you?"

He sat back, slouching. "Too well. You missed my most intimate encounter with him—having his whole personality crammed into my brain. I'm surprised my head survived."

"But Spock must have truly trusted you to make you the vessel for his _katra_."

"Maybe. Or maybe I was just the only sucker within arm's reach at the time."

"I envy the Vulcans. I wouldn't want their lifestyle but imagine being able to carry the presence of your loved one around in your head after he died."

"I don't have to imagine it."

She gave him a mischievous look. "Would you call Spock a loved one?"

"Never to his face. I dunno. My relationship with him has lasted longer than my relationship with Joanna's mother did. Been more peaceful, too. If my ex-wife and I had been cooped up together in space for thirty years, they'd learn that there is a reaction more dangerous than mixing matter and anti-matter."

"There was a time I'd have said the same about Jim and me."

"Times change. So do people. Jim sure did."

Do you think he felt cheated, Leonard? He gave his life to Starfleet. He sacrificed the chance to see David grow up so he could rise in the ranks. In the end, he abandoned the whole idea of career advancement. By then, David was gone."

"I know he regretted not knowing David—and being away from you for all those years. But I think you're missing the point, Carol."

"Am I?"

"Starfleet wasn't what mattered to Jim. The _Enterprise_ was. His ship, his crew, all the people we had the chance to help, that's what mattered. Anytime he tried to steer away from those key parts of his life, he floundered. I think he could have gone anywhere, worked for anyone. As long as he was allowed to keep his principles—that all people should be treated with dignity and decency—and as long as he could have the chance to explore and loyal people to lead, he would have succeeded."

"Being a leader was important to him," Carol agreed.

"Yeah. He was always one of those people who needed to be needed. I did a paper for the journals on that topic—command as an addiction. He was most of my research. I called him 'an individual with a peculiarly useful dysfunction: the need to shape the lives of others to their own advantage.' Thank god he never read it! He woulda killed me."

"No. He would have known it was true. He could be one arrogant bastard, but he knew it. That was his strength: he knew his weaknesses. I read your paper, by the way."

"You're kidding."

"No. Call me a hopeless case, but I read every single item I could find relating to Jim Kirk or the _Enterprise_. You didn't publish his name, but I knew it was him on the first page. I'd have known him anywhere."

"You never stopped loving him, did you?"

"Not for a minute. For years I wouldn't admit it, though, even to myself. I wish he were here now. When he was around, I always felt I could do anything." She stared out at the ribbon in space for some time. Finally, she said, "You know, you never really answered my question."

"Which one?"

"Do you think we can save Preston?"

He heard the need for reassurance in her tone, saw it in her face. All she was asking for was the strength to continue, no matter how hopeless things truly were. Tentatively, he reached out to place his arm on her shoulder. She settled easily into the embrace, shifting the weight of her body against his.

"I know one thing. He's got Jim Kirk's blood in his veins. That means anything is possible. And, if I had to bet everything, I'd bet on the sheer determination he's inherited from all of his ancestors to save him. No child could have better genes."

They talked on... and on. And even though they talked of dead friends and dying patients, of lost loves and personal failures, McCoy could have forgotten that there was any pain or misery anywhere in the universe. Alone in this sheltered pocket of reality with Carol Marcus, for this short time, he was content.

Before they knew it, it was four in the morning, and they finally convinced themselves that they might be able to sleep, at least for a few minutes. On his way back to his quarters, McCoy realized that he'd come to a conclusion sometime during those hours in the lounge. He'd decided that Jim Kirk was the biggest damned fool that ever lived for letting Carol Marcus go out of his life for a quarter of a century.

And McCoy was the luckiest damned fool that ever lived that she'd been a part of his life at all.

"Holy shit!" A young Terry Metcalfe's voice rang out along the corridor of Starfleet Operations, where the assembled officers of the _Phoenix_ and other ships waited in line to collect their next assignments. " _Enterprise_!" he yelled to his friends as he came out of the booth. "I got the _Enterprise_."

Standing not far away, unnoticed by the participants of this ghostly but realistic replay of past events, an older Terry Metcalfe watched his younger self's excitement with a pang of regret, knowing that he would never be able to fulfill those orders.

"Wait," he said to Kirk, who stood beside him. Kirk had led them here, to a place that wasn't really a place. He'd led them away from the illusion of Terry's grandfather's house to this illusion of Starfleet Operations. This wasn't an illusion, though. "You said we were seeing the events of another timeline. This really happened. _Enterprise_ was going to go back on duty after her training mission with the cadets. I would have been her helmsman, at Hikaru's recommendation."

Kirk nodded. "But, a week later, _Enterprise_ was damaged in the battle with Khan. Then I blew her up."

"I was reassigned to Fournier's ship."

"And you left space service for Intelligence. But suppose I hadn't stolen the _Enterprise_? Suppose her damage had been repaired, and we'd taken her out again? Those things really happened in another universe, carefully engineered to branch off from our own by... interested parties. What you're seeing now is the divergence point, where that alternate timeline broke off from our own."

The ghostly images of the _Phoenix_ crew and the corridors and the computer stations in their booths swirled away, as though they were a watercolor drenched by a sudden rain. Mist enshrouded the space around Kirk, Metcalfe and Saavik. Slowly, in the mist, shapes began to be apparent, dim and secluded at first, just shadows. Then they took on more defined form, color and substance. Sounds began to fade in, like a radio being tuned to a broadcast frequency.

Suddenly, they were on the bridge of the _Enterprise_ —the original _Enterprise_. Metcalfe saw his younger self seated at the helm. An officer he didn't know was at navigation, and Pavel Chekov sat in the center seat. The turbo-lift doors opened. Kirk came in, accompanied by McCoy, Uhura and Saavik. Their spirits were high. Kirk seemed particularly energetic as he moved to relieve Chekov.

"You're seeing versions of us in a universe where Spock stayed dead," the present-day Kirk explained. "I returned to captaincy, and both of you were among my new crew. Right now, we've just passed our baptism by fire: an encounter with an alien entity which tapped into my mind and made me believe I'd actually died. I was catatonic. Saavik mind-melded with me, and brought me out of it."

The young Saavik came and excused the officer at navigation, taking her place beside Metcalfe. He smiled happily at her, and they began to talk about earth literature. She'd been doing some heavy reading at his recommendation. The subject of her research was love among humans.

"You began a friendship," narrated Kirk beside them.. "And the coming trial by fire the two of you withstood cemented that friendship into something stronger."

The mists enclosed the image of the bridge and wiped it away. Now, around them, the surface of a planet formed. It was a desert world, with ruins scattered about. Metcalfe recognized it as the place they'd just visited.

"We're on the Time Planet," he said.

Before them, a huge, ring-shaped structure, illuminated from within, pulsing with energy, dominated the landscape.

"The Guardian of Forever," said Kirk.

Now transporter beams sparkled into existence in front of them, resolving into the figures of their younger selves.

"I remember," said Saavik. "It's almost as if this happened to me... I had a dream about this place, the Guardian." She turned to Kirk. "I'd never seen it before, but my dream filled me with a need to come here. I asked your permission to visit."

Kirk nodded. "And McCoy and Chapel backed you up, insisting I bring you here. So I did. I was furious that you wanted to beam down without me, but Bones made me humor you. There was a surprise waiting for you when you got here."

Spock now stepped into view, greeting Saavik and a surprised Metcalfe. He was, after all, supposed to be dead in this universe.

"It was Spock," said Saavik, "but from another place."

"From our reality," said Kirk. "The Guardian, a focal point between the universes, called to the Spock who'd just been restored by the refusion. He came to the Time Planet, and was pulled into the alternate timeline, the one where he'd remained dead."

Saavik nodded fervently. "The Guardian had called both of us to carry out a mission. The universe I was living in was engineered somehow. Subtle changes were made in the minds of key people—Admiral Morrow, David Marcus, and Dr. McCoy. Those changes allowed Spock to remain dead, _Enterprise_ to go back on duty, David to stay away from Genesis. Now the timeline had served its intended purpose, and had to be reconciled with reality."

Kirk smiled. "You were asked to destroy a whole universe."

"Not destroy it," said Saavik, "rather make it impossible."

Metcalfe found his own suppressed memories being triggered by the images before them. "Saavik asked me to help her—we went back in time and made changes."

"We altered that sub-universe's history, so that _Enterprise_ was decommissioned, so that Spock's _katra_ was put back in place, so that David went to Genesis with me..." Saavik trailed off.

"—and died," Kirk finished quietly. He nodded toward the images before them. "Your other selves are right now watching the events unfold as they should, courtesy of the Guardian. Once you had completed your missions, each of you jumped back into the timeline you were meant to be a part of, and the 'pocket' universe that had been engineered ceased to be. At least, that was the theory."

Kirk paused, allowing a moment for the emotional impact of what was before them. The Guardian's portal depicted a scene of the Genesis planet, where Saavik, David and a teenaged Spock were held by Klingons. Metcalfe thought it was a curious picture, the real Saavik, next to him, watched a Saavik in another universe, who watched a past Saavik.

When the Guardian's image showed a Klingon warrior poised to strike a killing blow to Saavik, and David Marcus battled the Klingon to the death to save her, Metcalfe saw his own younger self step forward, addressing the Guardian. Beside him, the real Saavik inhaled sharply, remembering the moment.

She locked her eyes on him. The images around them faded into mist, which was just as well. Right now, all he saw was Saavik, her eyes wide with amazement as she looked at him.

"You offered your own life—in place of David's," she said.

"You loved him. I couldn't bear to see you lose him."

"You would have died to allow me to love another."

"I—" he shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. She was staring at him, the raw emotion in her eyes too much for him to take all at once. "Silly, huh?"

She shook her head. "I do not think it is silly at all. It would seem that, in this doomed universe, your love for me was very real."

He took her hands. She did not pull away. "It...it still is. I know that isn't logical, but, seeing these things, I'm starting to remember this life. It's as if it really happened."

"It did," said Kirk.

Still holding Metcalfe's hands, Saavik looked to the Captain. "But... our mission was to wipe this universe, this pocket of reality, out of existence."

"And you would have—except for one simple gesture on the part of a man in love."

The mists began to swirl around them again, this time coalescing into an officer's cabin on a starship. It was sparsely decorated, as though inhabited by a visitor. Right now, it was dark, but the lights came up as the door opened, and the young Metcalfe came into the room. He surveyed it quickly, making sure it was truly unoccupied. Then he strode to the bookshelf over the bed and placed the object he carried with him amongst the small collection of data cartridges there. The present-day Metcalfe recognized the object, as did Saavik.

"The book..." she said.

"I put it in your cabin."

"To remind me that, somewhere in the fabric of reality, all dreams come true."

He met her eyes. They were soft and wondering and... confused. "Yes."

Kirk explained. "The book's existence, where it shouldn't have been, bridged our universe with the sub-universe which should have died. In your minds, at least, it continued. The two of you left the Guardian, went back to _Enterprise_ , and went on living. You forgot that your universe had ceased to exist"

"How is that possible?" asked Metcalfe. "Wouldn't we have been conscious of living two lives?"

"The memories are buried in your subconscious," replied Kirk, "in a part of your mind you don't even use. I'm told it's something like having a split personality."

"Who told you?"

Kirk smiled and shrugged. "We mentor figures from beyond the grave have to have a few secrets."

"So..." said Saavik slowly, sifting through the information they'd been given. She released Metcalfe's hands, which he regretted. "At some point, in this alternate universe in our minds, Commander Metcalfe and I were bonded. Our consciousnesses reached out to each other... across space... even though we have never met."

"In our universe you had not. But you are joined, as surely as if you had been through the ceremony in reality. That's why Metcalfe seems to be in _pon far_ —his body was looking for a way to cope with the great need his mind felt for you, Saavik. When he was put in proximity to you, your bond was activated, moved to his conscious mind."

"Captain," Metcalfe protested, "this is total metaphysics. It's not rational." For all the growing recognition in Saavik's eyes, for all the feelings resurfacing in him, feelings of love for this woman that he'd never known, he didn't want events to force him on her. He wanted her to accept him... willingly.

"I can't make you believe," said Kirk. "I can't even make you understand it fully, but... Terry, if you step back into our universe, your symptoms will return. If the bond isn't completed, you'll die."

"You could stay here with the Captain," Saavik suggested.

Metcalfe's heart sank. After all they'd seen and remembered, did she really want to be rid of him? Was he just a nuisance to her? An unwelcome intrusion in her already burdensome life?

"That... that isn't what I want."

She looked away, her voice filled with pain and indecision. "Terry, I do not know..."

He reached out and reclaimed her hands, pulling them to his chest and squeezing them. He leaned his face close to hers. "I'm going home with you, Saavik. If you don't want to complete this bonding... god, that sounds so clinical. I'll make no demands of you, Saavik; but I won't let you go without me. Dammit, maybe it isn't real, maybe it's just alternate history, but I love you, Saavik. I'd rather die than stop."

She said nothing, but slowly disentangled herself from him. She was not dismissive, merely thoughtful. That gave him some hope.

"The decision rests with the two of you," said Kirk. "Now you know what the problem is."

"But," said Metcalfe, "we don't have all the answers. What happened to the Guardian? Why the trail, leading us to the Nexus? Why was this other universe created to begin with?"

"I can't tell you now," Kirk said firmly. "There will be a time... but you weren't just called here to solve your own problem. There's also Preston."

Saavik looked up sharply. "Preston? You know—"

"I can see anything from here. Any time or any place." He stepped forward and took her hands, smiling. "Saavik, he's beautiful."

"Yes," she agreed quietly.

"There is a chance you can help him. Carol's on the right track with Pellegrinos, the technology of the Kallistans. It won't be enough, though. There's more you must do, if he's to survive."

"If?" asked Metcalfe. "Don't you know? I mean, if you can see the future—"

"I haven't looked," said Kirk. "I couldn't bear to find out that he dies. I can help, though. If all of you follow orders one last time."

"You know we'll do our best, Captain," said Metcalfe.

"I've always known that, Commander. This time it's imperative."

"You mentioned orders, sir? What orders?" asked Saavik.

"Uh..." he reached out his hand. "May I borrow your tricorder?"

Returning to the _Excelsior_ was simple, like stepping through a doorway. Kirk helped them pick the moment, and they stepped into the transporter room only hours after they'd left it. Saavik immediately raced into the corridor.

"I must take the tape the Captain made to Spock," she said.

Metcalfe followed her. Before they'd gone far, they were intercepted by Sulu, his expression urgent. "Thank god you're all right! Come on, Saavik, you're needed in sickbay right away." His face showed no feeling as he said, "It's Preston."

Saavik followed her captain at a jog. She said nothing, her face betrayed nothing, but Metcalfe could see the tightening of her jaw and neck muscles. Her own apprehension passed to him through their re-established mental bond. She was terrified that her child was dying. He could feel the hopeless resignation creeping over her. They had all known, after all, that there had never really been a chance.

Reaching sickbay, they dashed into the room where Preston's life support chamber had been placed. Saavik stopped in front of it and stared dumbly. It was empty.

A sick dread sank over Metcalfe. He wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her, but wasn't sure it was his place. He could feel the pain of her loss through their bond, and he knew that, after years of suppressing the rage of her Romulan heritage, Saavik was close to breaking from the strain as she gazed at the empty chamber.

He was struggling to find words as a tiny shuffling from the doorway behind them caused them to turn. The evidence of their own eyes, the reality of what confronted them, was unbelievable. It wasn't the figure standing before him that registered with Metcalfe first, but rather the smile on Hikaru Sulu's face, and those that McCoy and Carol Marcus wore too, as they entered the room.

Saavik was on her knees, mouth agape in disbelief. Pulling free of his grandmother's supporting arm, Preston stepped forward on wobbly legs, advancing toward Saavik. It looked for all the world as if he'd never be able to close gap of a few feet between them, but he did. He reached out and took hold of his mother by her shoulders, looking her up and down, feeling her hair, and the skin of her face.

He did not smile. His expression was as impassive, and as curious, as that of any other Vulcan. He fixed his eyes on her, and said quietly, "Mama?"

Metcalfe knew that Saavik had not cried as David Marcus died before her on Genesis. She had shed only the quietest tears at Spock's funeral. She had held her pain within her always, as any Vulcan should. Now a desperate sob escaped her, and tears spilled down her face, streaming onto the hair and face of the child she fiercely embraced.

Metcalfe wiped his cheeks of tears of his own as he watched and experienced the whole thing with both eyes and mind.

Spock said quietly, "I had only time for some brief telepathic language lessons. Dr. Marcus suggested the words that I teach him."

McCoy beamed and hugged Carol Marcus with one arm. "Looks like she got at least one of them right."

Saavik was oblivious to all they said. For the moment, she was not a Starfleet officer, not a Vulcan, not even an outcast halfbreed. She was a mother, whose baby had just taken his first step.


	14. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock receives a message from Kirk, who is inside the Nexus; Morrow and Fournier intercept it.

Chapter Eleven

"Computer," said Spock after he had seated himself at the desk in his temporary quarters on _Excelsior_ , "tie into tricorder data recorded by Lieutenant Commander Saavik. Download all information recorded."

"Working," said the computer's pleasant voice. "Encoded file found. Security code Spock, Alpha One."

"Display."

The computer demanded a retinal scan of him, and Spock obliged. Then the screen flickered to life. Saavik and Metcalfe had been insistent that he view the data they'd carried from what they called the Nexus. Saavik said there was a message for him. She would not identify the sender.

Spock was not surprised, however, when an image of Jim Kirk appeared on the screen before him. The ribbon was a gateway, after all, and Kirk had been lost in its vicinity. It followed logically that he could be in the Nexus beyond the gateway.

Kirk smiled at him. "Hello old friend. I've recorded this message because I need a favor from you—and from as many of our friends as you can corral. I wish I could say that the rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated, but I am dead, in real time and space. I won't disclose much, except to tell you that I entered the Nexus alive, as I'm sure you guessed. I left it quite some time into your future, and died in battle. The Nexus is an amazing place, though. The piece of me you see remained when my living self left. I can't exist outside this pocket of reality; but I can, if you're willing, coordinate one last mission. I'm counting on you to be my eyes, ears and legs. We have much to do."

When he had listened through his friend's plan to save Preston, Spock purged both the tricorder and the file containing the message in _Excelsior_ 's computer. It wouldn't do, after all, to have anyone else come across a message from James T. Kirk which was recorded after his death.

Harry Morrow shook his head as he watched the image again. Fournier, seeing it for the first time, tightened his jaw muscles and practically growled in anger. On Morrow's monitor was a still picture, part of a recorded transmission, made god knew where. The background was blank white, with some traces of fog and mist. In the foreground was James T. Kirk.

"This is the best we could get," Morrow explained. "Spock downloaded the message into _Excelsior_ 's computer. Where it was transmitted or received before that, we have no way of knowing. He used security encoding, so there was no way to pull out anything but fragments. Most of what we got was so hopelessly shredded that no coherent video was possible, and very little audio."

"But you really believe it's a current transmission?" asked Fournier. "You think Kirk's still alive somewhere?"

"Listen to the audio we managed to get," said Morrow. He keyed the computer for playback.

Kirk's voice, distorted, but recognizable, came over the speaker "... I am dead, in real time and space. I won't disclose much..."

Now Fournier shook his head. "I knew Kirk's people were up to something. Doesn't it figure that, sooner or later it would have to come down to Kirk himself. What does he mean, 'in real time and space?'"

"There's more," said Morrow quietly. He called up another audio clip.

It was Kirk's voice again. "...Preston to Pellegrinos. I know it's... Sarek can fix it. The answers are there. Once you've... bring Preston..."

"Giving orders again," muttered Fournier. "From beyond the grave! We can't trust Metcalfe or Sulu, if Kirk has them working for him."

"We don't know that they even know about this."

"Pardon me, Admiral, but that's a naive assessment. Even if they don't know Kirk's involved, they'll do whatever Spock says. We have to keep them out of the picture. We could cause Metcalfe to have an unexpected turn for the worse in his condition—"

Morrow stood and leaned forward across the desk, his voice quietly menacing. "I won't have that kind of talk in this office, Mister Fournier! Your opinions about Kirk are well-known, as is your professional excellence. But, so help me, if your vendetta against Kirk goes so far that you start picking off his officers—"

Fournier smiled his most ingratiating smile, and all indications that he could even hint at harming another human being vanished. His ability to render his dark side invisible served him well. "Just a thought, Harry. Besides, I thought Metcalfe was your officer."

"He is."

"And before that he was mine. Before that... he was Sulu's... and Kirk's. Let's not have any illusions, Harry. His loyalties lie with his first commander."

"As Kirk's, need I remind you, lay with me until the day he died. And I haven't abandoned yet my belief that he is dead."

"I won't touch that one. You don't deny, though, that we must get hold of the child. The

child is obviously on _Excelsior_."

Morrow nodded impatiently, knowing where the other man was going with this. Hell, his plan was practically gleaming in his eyes. "And Captain Sulu has broken orders and is late returning."

"I can take the ship from him and hold him for court martial."

"Even with your political clout, that's not a good idea, George. Sulu's popular with the admiralty—and the public. Spock is a diplomat now. We have to proceed carefully."

"Oh we will..." Fournier said with sincerity too deep to be genuine. "For now."

Morrow sighed. He was growing tired of Fournier's scheming, but it wouldn't do any good to be vocal about it. George Fournier was Starfleet's latest golden boy, and Harry Morrow was a disgraced former C-in-C whose very position in Starfleet was an act of mercy from his beneficent superiors. Even though he was the senior officer, he couldn't push Fournier around.

"So Kirk wants the boy taken to Pellegrinos," said Fournier, mulling over all they'd heard. He seemed to be pretending that no unpleasantries had been exchanged. "And Sarek can fix it."

"Sarek can." said Morrow. "If we try to intervene, questions will be asked."

Fournier nodded, smiling grimly. "Then I'll have to attend to their little expedition quietly, won't I? Excuse me, Harry. I'm going to formulate a few plans of my own on how to get hold of that boy."

He left. Morrow sat and thought it over for some time. Spock would take the boy to Pellegrinos—inside Klingon space. Fournier would, no doubt, send a powerful task force in to pull the boy out.

For purposes of Federation security, it made sense that they get hold of Spock and his allies before they completed their mission. On that point, Fournier was correct. But was his decision based on cold reason, or an undying grudge against James T. Kirk and all he stood for? Was Fournier pursuing an obsession, and would it cloud his judgement to the point that it endangered his mission?

It was possible, and Admiral Morrow, head of Starfleet Intelligence, was charged with anticipating every possibility, and having a backup plan.

He leaned forward and keyed his intercom, asking his secretary to put in a call to the Utopia Planetia shipyards.

Yes, he had a backup plan, and much groundwork to lay before the arrival of the operative who would carry it out. The operative was his best, Terry Metcalfe. If Fournier blew it, Metcalfe would ensure the child was brought into custody.

Morrow chuckled. His plan had the added benefit of giving Metcalfe something he'd wanted all his life, and thought was lost to him.

"Terry, my boy," he said quietly, "when you least expect it, your wildest dreams come true."


	15. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uhura joins the rebellion; Spock tries to give Bones relationship advice; Saavik makes a life-changing decision.

Chapter Twelve

"Sit still," whispered Saavik, her voice a touch beyond what might be called patient. "And don't touch that."

Preston looked up at her, but refused to withdraw his hand from the control panel built into the table top in front of him. "Why?" he asked.

They were in the briefing room, where Sulu had called a meeting. Since all parties aboard who knew of Preston's existence were in attendance, Preston had to be here as well. McCoy had not trusted any of _Excelsior_ 's medical staff with knowledge of the boy. Seeing Saavik's frustration with her understandably fidgety child, McCoy leaned across and handed Preston his own medical tricorder, from which he'd already downloaded all crucial data.

"Here, Preston," he said. "Play with this. You may be able to work it better than I can—silly, newfangled thing. I'd rather stick to tongue depressors."

McCoy didn't know how much of what he was saying the boy understood, nor how much he was capable of saying in return, but he was satisfied that Preston smiled at him. Now he turned to Spock and Sulu at the head of the table.

"Well, Captains, have you solved the galaxy's problems for us?"

"Hardly," said Sulu.

"But we have devised a plan," said Spock. "If we all are willing to follow instructions, I believe it will be possible to carry out the steps necessary to save Preston, despite the obstacles in our path. The obstacles, of course are:

"Starfleet wants the boy, because of his connection with Genesis. Whether they want to hold him in safekeeping, so that no one else can use him to build a doomsday weapon, or whether they want to destroy him and eliminate all chance of Genesis ever becoming a reality, no one knows. In any case, Starfleet cannot help Preston any more than Drs. McCoy and Marcus can, and their taking him into custody might cost him days he doesn't have.

"Second, the potential to perfect his protomatter-ridden DNA lies on Pellegrinos, which is, diplomatically, a forbidden world. I propose the following: Saavik will remain on leave. We will secure transportation to deliver her, along with Dr. McCoy, Dr. Marcus and Preston to Pellegrinos."

"And who's going to take us there?" asked McCoy.

"I have arranged for a ship already. It should be available by morning. As to clearance to visit Klingon space, Sarek was able to contact Chancellor Azetbur, who granted permission for a research expedition to visit Pellegrinos...for a short time."

"A short time is all you'd have in any case," added Sulu. "As soon as Starfleet discovers where you've gone—and they will!—they'll start asking questions and demanding your return or authorizing the Klingons to arrest you. You'll have to be in and out before that happens. If that isn't possible..." he shrugged, letting them all contemplate the consequences of being declared fugitives from both the Federation and the Empire.

Spock continued. "Commander Metcalfe must return to duty."

Despite his generally dazed appearance—the pseudo- _pon far_ was again taking its toll on him—the young Commander opened his mouth to object, but Spock cut him off.

"Any other alternative would cause too many questions to be asked. A senior officer in Starfleet Intelligence can't just go absent without leave, and asking for leave would be suspicious—even if Admiral Morrow granted it. Further, I doubt Admiral Morrow will grant you leave, Commander. You are his operative in charge of Preston's case. That case is still open."

Spock turned to Sulu. "You, also, must become uninvolved in the proceedings. Your career has been jeopardized enough."

Sulu rolled his eyes. "My career may be over, Mr. Spock. I broke orders to take you to the Nexus."

"No," said Spock quietly. "I have seen to that matter. You will find the Admiralty... lenient."

Annoyed, McCoy blurted, "Dammit, Spock, why are you being so mysterious? What do you mean you've 'seen to the matter?' If you want us to work with you, don't keep secrets!"

"Doctor, your emotional outbursts will not hasten my delivery of information. Further, I am certain they are grating on the nerves of your fellow humans. I must ask that you trust me, as you would have trusted Jim Kirk. I'm certain he would have approved of my plan."

"In a pig's eye! But what about you? What will you be doing?"

"I must return to earth. There are matters there which require my personal attention. That location will also allow me to monitor all progress."

"I suppose your son does not require your personal attention? Well Spock?" McCoy glared at him. The green-blooded bastard had had long enough to come around. McCoy was fed up with his little game of avoidance. A man didn't just pretend that a child he'd fathered wasn't his, and he didn't send others out to do the job of saving his life while he sat at home playing administrator. At least, he didn't if Leonard McCoy had anything to say about it.

"Leonard..." Carol said quietly, but warningly, touching his arm. "I'm sure Spock is doing what he thinks is best. Let's drop it, for now."

Not for the first time in the last week, McCoy found Carol's soothing tone easing his anger at Spock, and he sat back in his chair. He stopped looking at the Vulcan, still angry, but willing to be silent a little while longer... for Preston's sake.

McCoy noted the awkward silence his anger had created. He supposed he should feel embarrassed. Well, he wouldn't have been angry if Spock weren't being so thick-headed.

Metcalfe broke the silence, his voice labored, the pain he was trying to disregard showing all over his face. McCoy should have refused to allow him to attend the briefing. What the hell did Spock mean, 'he should return to duty?' He'd be dead in 72 hours.

"Captain Spock, there's just one more thing—you say you've secured a warp vessel—"

Spock nodded. "I have."

"Fine. What's to keep Starfleet off the backs of the team that goes to Pellegrinos?"

"If by 'off their backs,' you mean to imply that Starfleet will send a vessel in pursuit; I see it as a 97.2 probability."

"And when Starfleet comes to get them—how do they get away?"

"They will run."

Metcalfe narrowed his eyes. "Outrun a starship? You know Fournier will send his best."

"Our team will have... certain advantages," said Spock.

"And what about a pilot?" asked Metcalfe. "They'll need someone who can handle a ship like nobody's business. Since Starfleet's best is Captaining the _Excelsior_ —" he looked to Sulu, who smiled sheepishly.

Spock folded his hands and said, with great equanimity, "Commander, I know you are going to point out your own qualifications. I do not deny them. There is, however, an available pilot of high qualification who should, by now, be aboard this ship."

Metcalfe's face registered surprise. "Aboard? Who?"

Then, in a piece of theatric staging which could not possibly be accidental, and yet seemed totally beyond Spock's ability to time a revelation for maximum effect, the briefing room doors slid open. Leaning jauntily against the door frame, looking for all the world as though he were a flying ace from earth's first World War—and grinning from ear to ear to boot—was Pavel Chekov.

Before McCoy could voice his surprise, or even berate the conspicuously not-surprised Spock and Sulu for leaving them ignorant of Chekov's imminent arrival, Uhura stepped into view beside their Russian compatriot, looking equally pleased with herself.

"I convinced Pavel it was time for a vacation."

Chekov shrugged as he strode to seat himself at the table beside Sulu. "We took one of the fighters for a test run, then we—"

"Hikaru!" Before the doors had even shut behind Chekov and Uhura, Janice Rand rushed through them, her face flushed. "Sorry to interrupt, but I just received word from Starbase 11. Pavel and Uhura are—" Her eyes had been scanning the room as she spoke, and they came to rest last on the two new arrivals. "Oh," she said softly. "I guess I'm a little behind."

"We told base operations our warp control had failed, and the core was surging," Chekov continued. "Then we broke transmission."

"You mean 'lost communications,'" Uhura corrected him.

"Of course."

"Good thing we were here to rescue you," grinned Sulu.

"And our ship is in the hangar bay until I can figure out what went wrong. Which should be about twelve hours before you make earth orbit."

"At which time you will set course for Pellegrinos, carrying passengers," finished Spock.

"Got it all figured out, don't you, Spock?" shot McCoy.

"Indeed. The plan I am using is a truly masterful peace of strategic engineering, Doctor."

"I'll believe that when I see it."

"You will not have long to wait. With Captain Sulu's permission, I declare this meeting adjourned. The Pellegrinos team will be ready for departure at 0600."

The others gathered up their data flimsies and PADDs and shuffled out of the room, making stops to embrace Chekov and Uhura on their way. Preston, with an expression of grave sincerity, returned McCoy's tricorder.

"Thank you, sir," McCoy said with a small bow. "Now, what say we rustle up some ice cream?"

Preston looked puzzled at this remark. McCoy was considering scooping the boy up onto his shoulders and carrying him to the mess hall when Spock came up behind him.

"Doctor, I need to speak to you. Will you excuse us, Saavik?"

When Saavik and the others were gone, McCoy leaned against a chair back, his arms crossed, and glowered at Spock. "I suppose you're going to lecture me on the inappropriateness of questioning your motives in front of the others."

"It was, of course, inappropriate. In your case, however, inappropriate behavior is simply one more indicator that the system is functioning as expected."

"Why you—!"

"Doctor, please, I do not wish to argue. I must ask you a question which is personal in nature."

"Personal? What?"

"Are you developing an emotional attachment to Carol Marcus?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" McCoy demanded. His feelings for Carol were none of Spock's business. It surprised him, at one level, that his anger outweighed his shock that Spock even cared or had noticed his attentions to Carol. His anger did win the competition, however. He realized that that in itself was very telling.

Spock's tone did not change. He asked coldly, "Are you falling in love with Carol Marcus?"

"I don't believe I'm having this conversation."

"But my supposition is correct."

"No!" barked McCoy. Then he wondered why he felt a need to hide his feelings from Spock. "Maybe. I don't know, Spock. She's an old friend. We both miss Jim, so we've been together a lot lately. I enjoy her company, and I would like to continue to be around her. If that's love—"

"It... may not be possible," Spock interrupted. He had that same tone of mystery in his voice he'd had during the briefing, but now it was laced with concern, or possibly regret. What did Spock know that he wasn't sharing?

"What may not be possible?"

"Your continuing to be in the presence of Dr. Marcus. I cannot say more."

"Spock, are you feeling all right? You've gotten awful cryptic all of a sudden—even for you."

"Agreed. There is much I am not privileged to repeat. I can guide others away from... personal suffering, however."

"'Personal suffering?' You think Carol's gonna hurt me?"

"What I know I know for fact. That is all I can say. Do not... pledge yourself too quickly."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were worried about me."

"Worry is a human emotion."

"So it is. Look, Spock—"

"Thank you for your time, Doctor. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe we both have pressing matters to attend to."

Spock gathered his stack of data flimsies and left the room, almost as if he were avoiding McCoy. His whole bearing suggested that he hadn't wanted to have this conversation but had felt honor bound to. He knew something, he'd said, knew it for certain. Whatever it was, it had to do with Carol, and it meant McCoy would not be able to explore whatever the feelings he was developing for Carol were.

And, for the first time, he realized how very much he wanted a chance to explore those feelings.

In his quarters, Terry Metcalfe lay in bed, shivering from the cold. Only moments before, he'd kicked the covers off the bed in a rage, because he was so damned hot, he'd felt strangled. Now he snatched them from the floor and cocooned himself in them. He rubbed his arms vigorously. His teeth chattered.

It was getting worse. This attack of fever and chills had already outlasted the previous one—the one just before the afternoon briefing. The medication could lessen his symptoms, not eliminate them. The medication was losing its effect. McCoy wouldn't be specific, but Terry knew he had less than two days to live.

Would he go completely mad, he wondered? Would he slip into a coma, or maybe injure himself? Worse, would he hurt someone else? He thought guiltily of Saavik. The feelings of desire for her had increased tenfold, even since the meeting today, when she'd been next to him, and he could smell her fragrant hair, and feel the warmth of her body inches away.

It suddenly occurred to him that, as his sanity slipped, the need he felt for Saavik could cause him to injure her. He wondered idly if Vulcan had ever had a problem with rape being committed by males in _pon far._ Most likely not. They dealt with everything so logically. Besides, his raping Saavik was an idiotic idea. If he tried, she would restrain him. If he hurt her, she was quite capable of rendering him unconscious, or killing him.

He coughed, triggering a spasm of dry hacking. It was getting harder for him to breathe as his diaphragm muscles lost their involuntary control functions. His whole nervous system was hopelessly screwed up. He wondered if he would go blind or deaf. As the pain in his chest increased, he lifted himself off the bed. He'd left the pills McCoy had given him on his desk. He staggered toward it, still coughing.

Halfway to the desk, he stumbled and feel to his knees. Cursing, he used a chair leg to pull himself up. The door buzzer sounded, an angry, jarring buzz. He spat out another curse but didn't answer it. He wanted to be left alone.

The buzzer sounded again. "Go away," he muttered. "Go the hell away."

The door opened. Damn!

He looked up, prepared to spring on the intruder, then caught himself. It was Saavik. Her eyes widened, and he realized his face must be twisted with rage. He tried to smile.

"I thought you were the damned engineering tech. She's been in here three times, claiming the environmental system—"

"Why do humans lie to disguise the fact that they are ill?" She stood still by the door, watching him closely.

He grinned. "Ah... bad genes?"

"The symptoms are worsening."

"I can deal with it," he said, picking two of the pills out of the tiny plastic container and popping them in his mouth. He swallowed, then coughed hard as he realized how dry his mouth was.

Saavik rushed to the food selector and punched up a glass of water, which she brought to him and held to his lips. She placed a steadying hand on his bare shoulder. The feeling of her flesh against his was jarring, yet somehow calming. The pain in his chest lessened. His arousal grew. He realized how glad he was that he'd left his uniform pants on when he'd collapsed into bed.

"For how long," Saavik asked, "can you 'deal with it?'"

"Long enough to carry out Spock and Kirk's plan. Then... "

"You will die," she finished quietly.

"Me? I'm too hateful to die. You've heard the Earth saying... 'only the good die young.'"

"That is ridiculous. Many good people die old. Many die young who are by no means good. I saw many evil children die on Hellguard."

He looked in her eyes, full of pain and memories still very real. "It's... just an expression. Please don't worry about me."

"I do not intend to."

"Dr. McCoy can lick this. I just need—"

She grasped both his wrists in her hand and looked him squarely in the eye. "—we both know what you need. I can provide it."

He tried to pull away. "Saavik, please. I don't want to force you into—"

"You have exerted no force against me. I have made a decision, and I am satisfied with it."

"Saavik, with everything that's going on now, I can't ask you to make this kind of commitment to me."

"You did not ask."

"The bond we're discussing isn't a marriage of convenience! It can't be annulled after all this is over. It's permanent. And right now, you have Preston to think about—"

"Yes," she nodded. "Preston is the key to my decision. Preston has allowed me to make this decision." She released his wrists, then looked around the room, taking a moment to survey its disarray. She gathered his discarded sheets and blanket, piling them on the bed, then sat down on its edge.

"When he was born," she continued, "and the healers told me that he was genetically unstable, that he could not live to adulthood, I... I sought refuge in Vulcan discipline. I studied on Mt. Seleya for four years. I even considered attempting Kolinahr. I wanted... I wanted to purge the pain I felt. In the past, I had always been able to seek out Spock for counsel. That time I couldn't. I could not bring shame to him by telling him that someone as unworthy as I had born him a child."

The sharpness of her words, so devoid of bitterness and pity, but so matter of fact, struck Metcalfe. He sat next to her, his arm hesitantly reaching toward her, unsure whether to offer the human comfort of an embrace. "Unworthy? That's ridiculous!"

"I am half-Romulan, Terry, and half-Vulcan. My very existence stems from an act of unspeakable violence, because no Vulcan would allow himself or herself to be the sexual plaything of a Romulan. That means that I, like all of the children of Hellguard, am a child of violence, of rape."

"That has nothing to do with you. You can't help—"

"The Vulcans see it differently. That is one of the reasons I did not remain on Vulcan. Despite their logic and restraint, I sensed that many of them considered me an outsider. I felt...unwanted. That is illogical, but it was true, just as I believe it must have once been true for Spock. There was nothing I could do for Preston, so I returned to the only life I knew—the _Enterprise_. I visited Vulcan whenever I could, but it made no difference to Preston. He was never conscious until today.

"Even on the _Enterprise_ , though, I shut down my feelings. I distanced myself from Spock, from Captain Kirk. I was efficient, nothing more. A full Vulcan might find solace in a life efficiently lived. I did not. The situation came to a head when Valeris came aboard. I saw that she was a bigot. Spock saw only her commitment to Vulcan discipline. I was angry. I felt betrayed. I suppose I was even... jealous. I ran again. I applied for a deep space assignment and wound up on _Excelsior_."

He shook his head. "I can't even imagine the pain you've been through."

"Today, when I saw the life that we could have lived together, my resolve began to falter. You must understand, no one offers a Vulcan love or friendship. They assume we do not want it. In the nine years since David died, you are the first person who has even offered me the opportunity for... love.

"When we returned to sickbay, and Preston was there. I held him in my arms. I _felt_ him in my arms. I felt the soft brush of his mind against my own, reaching out, seeking contact. I was overwhelmed. Despite my best effort to maintain my restraints... I could not deny my feelings. I could not deny my love for my son. I could not deny my joy that he was actually walking, talking..."

"Everyone understood."

"When I looked up... I saw tears in your eyes."

He looked away, embarrassed. "I... you were so happy. I —"

She reached out, and, with surprising gentleness, cupped his chin and lifted his face to look again at hers. "My happiness affects you so strongly?"

"Your happiness... " He tried to find the words and couldn't. What he said was trite and clumsy. "It's everything in the universe to me."

It was enough. Saavik smiled at him and moved her hand to caress his face and neck. "For years, I have allowed myself to feel nothing. Today, I have been forced to face my emotions again. I have been _made_ to feel. Now I never intend to stop. I have found that I can love and face the pain that may follow. I do not wish to be alone any longer. Terry... will you have me, as your bondmate?"

A week ago, he hadn't known this woman, except to hear her name from mutual friends. Now, suddenly, here she sat, on his bed, offering herself to him in a marriage more binding than any his own race had ever been able to create. Vulcan marriages, through the implantation of the _katra_ , often survived beyond death.

It was insane. Despite the overwhelming needs of his body, despite all that they had seen in the Nexus, this woman was a stranger. Did it make any kind of sense to permanently bond with her as casually as a cadet fell into bed with a barmaid?

Above all other beliefs he held, Terry Metcalfe believed in being decisive. Bad decisions could be recovered from, bad hands could be played, but one always had to push forward. Life was to be lived, not researched.

He fell into Saavik's arms, making his answer clear in his kisses, his desperate embrace, his exploring hands and body. Sometime into their embrace, she pulled back, gently holding him at arm's length. One elegant hand found the _katra_ points in his face. Her eyes asked permission. His eyes answered yes.

Her mind entered him, her thoughts, her feelings, more passionate than anyone could have imagined. Was this her Romulan heritage, so capable of desperate love, extreme anger, intense guilt? Or was it the repressed part of her Vulcan side? He didn't care. It was Saavik, it was all Saavik, and it was all for him to experience.

He felt her deep love for Preston, so long tinged with regret and hopelessness, now daring to light with hope for the future. He felt her admiration for Spock, her love of this man who'd been her savior, her fear that he was going to reject her. And he felt her love for him, mixed with curiosity, because it was all so new. There was the thrill of the unknown in what they were doing. Slowly, ecstatically, timidly, joyfully, their minds came together as one, even as their bodies did the same. And for a long, long, time, the rest of the universe simply didn't exist.


	16. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under Chekov's command, Saavik and company depart for the Neutral Zone to fetch Preston's last chance for life. Meanwhile, Excelsior comes home, and Metcalfe must again play an uncomfortable role.

Chapter Thirteen

At 0700 Chekov's appropriated warp fighter, the _Pandora_ , was checked out and ready to depart from _Excelsior_ 's hanger deck. Saavik and Preston waited to one side with Metcalfe while McCoy groused at Chekov about the storage of medical equipment, and Carol and Uhura completed their final inventory check.

The boy watched everything in wide-eyed silence. His lack of verbal communication gave him the appearance of great timidity, but Metcalfe knew that he simply hadn't learned many words yet. Spock had mind-melded with him, giving him some telepathic lessons, but there hadn't been time for much. Preston was really very brave, all things considered. He'd been through a kind of second birth trauma only yesterday, being catapulted out into a world he'd never consciously known. He was adapting amazingly well.

Chekov approached them, his hands jammed into the pockets of his civilian jacket. It wouldn't be appropriate to wear their Starfleet uniforms for this expedition. Saavik, particularly, looked out of place in a dark green tunic and black jeans.

"We're ready when you are, Saavik," Chekov said.

"Thank you Commander."

Spock, who had remained till now with Sulu and Rand by the entrance to the hangar deck, approached. "You are ready?" he said to Saavik.

"In a moment," she replied. Metcalfe had no idea whether Spock was aware of what had happened last night. Would Saavik have told Spock? Or did Vulcans just _know_ when a couple had bonded? Spock gave no indication one way or the other.

Preston stepped forward, looking at Spock perhaps a little warily. He didn't' seem afraid, maybe just impressed. Tentatively, he held up his right hand, his fingers spread in the Vulcan salute. "Live long and prosper, Spock," he said clumsily. Then he looked at his hand with concern. "Is right?"

Metcalfe stifled a laugh, and Saavik smiled. Spock merely nodded gravely. "That is quite correct." Then he returned the salute. "Peace and long life, Preston Kirk Marcus. May your journey be free from incident."

Preston didn't understand all the words, of course, but he seemed happy to participate in the ritual. Carol came over and wrapped an arm around him, urging him toward the ship. "C'mon, Preston, we need to get you strapped in."

Preston looked at his mother, who nodded, then he looked back at Carol. He pointed, and, for the first time, smiled. "Nana," he said, proud of himself.

Carol laughed happily. "Oh, you wouldn't say it for me, would you? Had to have an audience?" She led him into the ship.

"I will take my leave of you," Spock said. "If all goes as expected, we shall meet again soon."

They exchanged salutes, and Spock left them alone. "I would be more comfortable if he told us how and when he plans to meet us," she said.

"I guess he figures the fewer of us that know the plan, the less chance there is it'll be discovered," said Metcalfe.

Saavik nodded. "I know you wish you were going with us."

"I'm sure Spock's right. I have to play my part and keep Morrow pacified."

"Do you think there will be consequences for you?"

"I doubt it. Dr. McCoy had certified that I was gravely ill. They'll buy that. I just wish I had some control over where they'll send me next. To be off on some damn mission with no clue whether you're dead or alive—"

"You will feel my presence through the bond. That will assure you that I am still living."

"Can you hide anything from me through the bond?"

"I should lie and say I can't, but you could see through that obvious deception. Yes, I can keep things from you."

"But you won't."

"No. I won't be able to afford to. I doubt there is much you would be able to do to help me, in any case."

He took a gentle hold on her shoulders. "If I get the slightest sense that anything is wrong, I'll get to you—I swear! And Morrow can go hang."

She shook her head. "Just like a human," she said, but she smiled. Then, with a gentle brush of his hand in Vulcan fashion, she rushed into the ship.

"I don't believe it!"

Harry Morrow gave his subordinate a bemused smile. "Come now, George, you should have expected it." He reached out, reclaiming his PADD from Fournier, not wanting it to become a casualty to the Commodore's wrath.

"That Sarek would wangle his government into saying that Sulu was acting at their behest? _That_ I believe. That the C-in-C would let it go at that? No. If it were my call—"

"—You'd damage relations with the Vulcan Council just to slap one officer on the wrist?"

"I'd have something to say about the Vulcans helping themselves to Starfleet resources. No one planet can use a Starfleet ship for its own purposes—"

"—Except in case of emergency," finished Morrow. "Really, George, I had your job before you had your first command. I don't need to be lectured. The Vulcans claim they had an emergency. To challenge them would create an internal incident we can't afford."

Fournier grimaced, knowing his superior was right. Fournier was a pragmatic man, despite his private outbursts. "Let's just hope we can have the child in custody," he said. "Before Spock can arrange transport to Pellegrinos."

Morrow indicated the computer readout in front of them. " _Excelsior_ 's coming into orbit now. Join me in the transporter center?"

Sulu's crew was lined up for inspection when Morrow and Fournier arrived. Ordinarily, such a measure would not be called for except at the end of a mission. Nor had Fournier asked for the red carpet treatment. Nevertheless, Hikaru Sulu was no fool. Fournier often thought of him as one of those archetypal tricksters out of old mythology. He was shrewd, this one, so he beamed his superiors to the hangar deck, not the transporter room, and his crew was turned out in impressive style.

The young, black Vulcan at the hatch blew a boatswain's whistle as Admiral and Commodore materialized in their midst, and the assemblage snapped to attention as one.

"At ease," called Morrow. That annoyed his companion. Morrow was the ranking officer here, but Fournier was Sulu's commanding officer. It was customary for him to address his people first. Perhaps it was an oversight, but Fournier doubted it. At least now Morrow stepped back to allow Fournier to address the crew.

"The Vulcan government has transmitted its commendation to you all for rendering aid in an emergency. I speak for Starfleet Command when I congratulate you on a job well done. While this turnout was hardly required, it is, nonetheless, appreciated."

Under his breath, Morrow said, "Just the short version, George. The next election isn't for years."

Fournier stymied the urge to glare at the Admiral, and gave his best genial smile to the crew. "All but the senior officers are dismissed."

While the young Vulcan piped them out, Fournier locked eyes with Sulu and advanced on him. Sulu met Fournier's glare with innocent eyes.

Fournier said tightly, "Captain, you were carrying Dr. McCoy. Where is he?"

"He already beamed down, Commodore."

"But I gave orders that all personnel remain on board until I had arrived."

"With all due respect, sir, Dr. McCoy is Starfleet administrative staff—"

"It would have been a show of respect all the same, not that any of Kirk's people have any."

Sulu smiled politely. "In future I will urge my guests to be present for inspection, sir."

Fournier leaned into him. "You seem to have the blessing of the Vulcans on your insubordination. They have excused your actions. I have not. Clear?"

"Crystal, sir."

"Good. I'm sure you're aware that the tide of political opinion is turning far away from maverick officers who take Starfleet regulations into their own hands. That may have worked thirty years ago, but this is a different galaxy now. The James T. Kirks don't fit in any longer."

Just out of his line of sight, there was a small, snorting sound. He turned, looked over the other officers, and determined it had come from Janice Rand.

"Problem, Commander?"

"No sir, nothing I can't handle."

Fournier nodded skeptically. While they all knew it was flat out insubordination, she could claim merely to have needed to sneeze.

Next to Rand stood Terry Metcalfe. He looked none the worse for his experience with what McCoy had compared to Rigel Fever. It was truly remarkable that he'd recovered so fully, and stood there now as healthy, smug and arrogant as the day Fournier had met him. Worse, his expression said his attitude had soured with age.

"Commander Metcalfe."

"Commodore."

"I trust you are recovered."

"Aye, sir."

"You have a full report ready?"

"For Admiral Morrow, yes," said Metcalfe pointedly.

Harry Morrow cleared his throat. "Commander, Commodore Fournier is well aware of the chain of Intelligence command." Then he turned to the small cluster of senior officers left in the room. "I suppose some of you are wondering about my presence here. It's nothing of import. Commander Metcalfe was aboard to supervise the transportation of some classified information. Commander?"

"Sir?" responded Metcalfe.

"Commodore Fournier will join us at debriefing. I trust the... cargo is in safekeeping."

Metcalfe surprised Fournier by looking sideways at Sulu... with supreme annoyance. "The incident is best saved for the debriefing, Admiral."

Morrow frowned. "I see. Perhaps Captain Sulu should join us."

"A pleasure, Admiral." Sulu smiled.

His smile seemed to be directed at Metcalfe. What _was_ this all about? Were the two men up to something, or actually angry with each other?

Either way, Fournier was going to get the goods on them, and use the information to his advantage.

"You lied to me," Fournier said accusingly.

"Not lied, sir," Sulu corrected him. "I never denied that Preston Marcus was on the _Excelsior_. I just never mentioned him at all."

They were in Morrow's office now, and Fournier was anything but restrained. "You did tell me that Commander Saavik was still on Vulcan."

"Yes."

"But she was on your ship."

"Yes."

"Well!?"

Sulu did not lose his cool. "Sir, given the attacks on Preston by agents who may or may not have been Starfleet Intelligence—"

"They were," Morrow cut in.

"But we didn't know that at the time, Admiral. It appeared that the boy was in danger. I felt I owed it to his family to keep him safe, so I let them bring him aboard. Since it was clear he was being pursued by someone, I didn't think I should mention over subspace that he or his mother were aboard."

"Yet you just told us you let him leave, unprotected, in a warp fighter!" accused Fournier.

"At Ambassador Sarek's request," Sulu said patiently.

"Did you know that Sarek's request was contrary to Starfleet interests?" asked Fournier. Sulu was about to reply, but Metcalfe beat him to it, his voice cold.

"Yes," he said.

"Terry!" Sulu cried, shocked at this betrayal.

Metcalfe spun on Sulu. "Dammit, Hikaru, I can't let our friendship blind me to the fact that you're wrong! Commander Saavik's child is a product of Genesis, and thus a potential security threat. He belongs under Starfleet care. That's what I tried to tell you when Spock sent Saavik and McCoy on this fool's errand!"

"Spock?" demanded Morrow and Fournier simultaneously.

"He's the boy's father," said Sulu.

"We know that," said Morrow. "We didn't know Spock was on _Excelsior_."

"You didn't ask. And, again, I thought it was best discussed here."

Fournier shook his head, his fury at its peak. "Captain, you realize you could stand charges. You violated my orders, and disregarded the advice of Starfleet Intelligence."

Sulu glared at his former protege once again. "I don't work for Starfleet Intelligence. Spock and McCoy are two respected veterans. They convinced me that the trip to Pellegrinos was the boy's only chance. It was a judgement call."

"A bad one," said Fournier.

"Nonetheless," said Morrow slowly, "it seems to me that Captain Sulu acted in ignorance, and out of humanitarian concern. I'm not happy that one of my chief operatives' requests were taken so lightly, but I see no need to press the matter."

"If we can believe you both," said Fournier.

"George..." Morrow warned.

Fournier ignored him, crossing his arms and standing belligerently in front of Metcalfe. "Tell me, Commander Metcalfe—you object to Captain Sulu's decision. What would you have done? Risked the child's death to return him here?"

Metcalfe faced him, his jaw set firmly. "I would have contacted my superiors, sir. I would have followed their orders."

Fournier grimaced. "How... refreshing."

Morrow stood. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen. Captain Sulu, you're dismissed. Terry, wait in the outer office. I want to go over the final mission report with you."

Metcalfe nodded, and he and Sulu left, keeping their distance from each other.

When the door had closed behind them, Fournier said, "I don't think Sulu can plead ignorance, Harry. I think he knows—"

"It doesn't matter, George. Disciplining him would cause too much of a fuss. We have to let it go... for now. They had Sarek's backing, and he's influential. Rank hath its privileges, remember. Besides, their motives are understandable—"

"If you don't happen to give a damn about the future of the Federation."

Morrow counted silently to ten. Twice. "We've got the situation under control."

"What about Metcalfe?"

"What about him?"

"You don't trust him, do you? He has emotional ties to these people."

"He's a professional," said Morrow evenly.

"He's a maverick."

"You saw him tear into Sulu."

"Could have been an act."

"George, I think you're becoming paranoid. You're letting your anti-Kirk sentiments make all your decisions. Not everyone who admired Jim or served with him is the Anti-Christ. Even those we're up against are just doing what they believe—"

Fournier slapped the table between them and leaned in toward Morrow. "Dammit, Harry, I think you want them to get away with this!"

Morrow stood and faced Fournier, his eyes blazing. "In case you've forgotten, Commodore Fournier, this is not about your personal desire to outshine Jim Kirk and humiliate his admirers. This is a matter of Starfleet and Federation security—got it?" The last words were barked in Fournier's face.

"Got it," he said quietly.

"And be glad George, that it's not a contest between you and Kirk. Because, if it were, so help me I 'd have a hard time choosing sides."


	17. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock visits a kinsman at the Vulcan Embassy; Metcalfe receives an unexpected new assignment; Morrow sends Fournier on a mission which could end in the deaths of Saavik and most of Kirk's old crew.

Chapter Fourteen

The Vulcan Embassy in San Francisco was not an overly large building. It had once been a residence, in fact, built during the turn of the nineteenth century. It displayed the overly elaborate decor of the times, and was certainly not what the Vulcans would have chosen themselves. When they had first set up a diplomatic presence on earth, however, it had seemed important to the humans to give them a place such as this. Humans placed, even today, such stock in the trappings of wealth and nobility. They no doubt wanted to show the Vulcans how important their presence on earth was.

Because the facilities were not abundant, however, many diplomatic personnel shared office space. Spock, as a new member of the corps, would have been given a desk in a small common room with seven other junior ambassadors whose postings brought them frequently to earth. But Spock was the son of the Senior Ambassador, and so shared an office with his father.

It was an office which, upon his arrival this night, was not empty. Sarek, of course, was still on Vulcan, but their aide informed Spock immediately that there was a gentleman waiting for him inside—an officer from Starfleet. Spock entered, acknowledged his distant kinsman, Sernak, a Lt. Commander in the engineering research facility on Mars, and activated the privacy damping field within the office. Theoretically, they could not now be overheard.

"You have made the necessary preparations?" Spock asked, seating himself behind his desk. Sernak settled opposite him. "I have. The admiral contacted my supervisor, as you predicted. I made a recommendation which will be... acceptable... to both parties."

"No one questioned your proposed upgrades?"

"No. The Admiral seemed pleased with the change. If I may ask, Ambassador—"

Spock interrupted. He knew Sernak wondered how he had anticipated Admiral Morrow's request. "Now is not the time to be forthcoming. Suffice it to say that I was aware of an 83.68 per cent probability that the Admiral would make just such a requisition."

Sernak nodded. "It is unusual behavior, even for a human, the sudden need for a vessel from the decommission list."

"Humans are often unusual, but as often predictable. What power increase do you estimate?"

"18.72, allowing for an experienced engineer to supervise the operation."

"Is such an engineer available?"

"I have volunteered myself."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

"Yes. You see, the... officer in question is a friend of mine. I trust, sir, that you are not offended by my referring to a human in such a manner?"

Spock found Sernak's hesitance amusing. He might wish that he himself, at such a young age, had felt confident enough to admit to friendship with humans. Sernak, of course, was a full Vulcan, and had never been subject to the scrutiny which Spock had. In fact, many of Sernak's generation seemed to be more open than any of their predecessors to exploring human culture and relationships. It had not been so in his day.

"Not at all," Spock replied to his question. "I, too, number several humans as friends."

"This particular human often needs assistance staying out of trouble, as they say. I felt it my duty to offer my help."

Spock steepled his fingers before him and nodded thoughtfully. "I empathize, Commander. I have known my share of humans who could not stay out of trouble."

Fournier came out of Morrow's office looking like a Klingon with a toothache. He growled something at Metcalfe as they passed in the hall. Metcalfe couldn't help smiling. Even if he hadn't been the one to cause it—and he might have been!—Fournier's anger always filled him with a sense of personal victory. The Commodore would much rather have had everyone believe that he had no temper whatsoever, only grim resolve.

Metcalfe was happy to be the one to shatter the illusion.

An assistant motioned to Metcalfe to go back in. Morrow smiled genuinely as he entered. "I'm impressed with how you handled yourself on Vulcan, especially given your illness. You're fully recovered now?"

"Yeah," said Metcalfe, "Dr. McCoy can work miracles." He didn't mention, of course, that his renewed health had nothing at all to do with McCoy. He certainly wasn't going to discuss the treatment program.

Morrow gestured to a chair. He spread his hands flat on the table before him, looking pained. "I guess by now you've realized that your orders were a red herring."

Metcalfe gave his best innocent smile, his eyes too wide. "You didn't send me to look for Separatists?"

"I'm sorry, Terry. I didn't want to lie to you, but Genesis is and always has been political dynamite. I'd hoped that the reports I'd heard—just rumors!—were mistaken. I'd hoped you could assure us that there was no Genesis baby."

"But I proved there was."

"And now we have to plan some actions. We can't allow the boy to slip through Starfleet's fingers. We know where Saavik is taking him—"

"How?"

"It's best kept quiet for now. I don't want to jeopardize our chance to put the boy in custody... the boy _and_ his mother. If the rest of the Federation finds out that the Vulcan government was concealing Genesis information from the galaxy... they'll want someone to take the rap. Otherwise, the very core of the Federation could be jeopardized. You and I both know we can't afford to lose Vulcan as a member, not even when their damnable logic makes them pull stunts like this one."

Metcalfe sighed. This was part of the plan. He just had to listen to it. Well, that was difficult enough. "Yes sir."

"So Saavik may have to be slapped down, Sarek's blessings notwithstanding. It may be the only way to maintain the Federation's good will toward Vulcan. We may have to be... creative, make it look as if she deceived Sarek." He looked closely at Metcalfe. "You agree?"

Metcalfe paused, forced a smile. "I'm sure a Vulcan would find it... logical."

Morrow sighed. "Probably. Saavik's going to Pellegrinos. That makes this tricky. Still, we can make a capture with a minimum of incident _if_ no one gets trigger happy."

"By no one, you mean Fournier?"

Morrow nodded. "He's handling the retrieval effort. He'll meet Saavik's ship before it leaves Pellegrinos, hopefully. I'm worried, though. He's got a grudge against Kirk and Kirk's crew. That could make him overreact. Saavik's child _must_ be brought under our control without the media, the Klingons, or the Romulans knowing too much about it. Fournier tends to attract attention, so I need someone out there I can trust."

He looked pointedly at Metcalfe. "I need _you_ out there, Terry. I've gotten you a ship."

"Where will they drop me off? It's the middle of Klingon space."

Morrow hesitated. "It's... not exactly a drop-off. You see, you'll need a team backing you up, and..." He stopped, grimaced, fidgeted, then threw up his hands. "Oh, hell! Here!"

Morrow reached into his jacket pocket and extracted an envelope. It was a real paper envelope, parchment, actually. They were used seldom in Starfleet, saved for occasions when orders were presented at official ceremonies: retirements, honorable discharges, transfers of command... Good god, they hadn't gone that far, had they?

"Paper, sir?"

Morrow nodded with a small smile. "I know there's supposed to be a ceremony, but there isn't time... maybe when you get back. I felt I owed this to you now." He held the envelope out.

Metcalfe stared at it but didn't take it. Surely Morrow wouldn't go that far! "I don't—"

But Morrow smiled broadly. "Your transfer of command has been signalled, and your crew is waiting. You leave in twelve hours."

Metcalfe slowly took the envelope, extracted the sheet within, and examined it. Yes. He had gone that far. It was a letter of promotion, an assignment to command a scout on the Romulan border. They weren't giving him a team to lead, they were giving him his first command.

"In the wake of Khitomer," Morrow explained, "we've become very concerned about Romulan activity on the Neutral Zone border. We've got to be watchful for signs that they're making a move on the Klingon Empire. In its present condition, its ripe for takeover. The C-in-C wants a trained intelligence presence in the area, working with regular military personnel—commanding them, actually.

"That'll put you halfway there, with no objections from our colleagues in the regular military. Then, when the time is right, I'll signal you to move in on Saavik's ship. You'll be an observer in a matter of security. All legal and proper. If things get out of hand... I'm counting on you."

"Admiral," Metcalfe asked, "what if Fournier decides the only effective solution is to kill the boy?"

Morrow was not quick to answer. When he did, it looked as though it was painful for him. "He may be right. You'll have to be ready to accept that and let him do it. I'm counting on your judgement. Further..." Again, he hesitated. "If you think it's best to... neutralize the boy, and it's not going to happen..."

Metcalfe understood all too well. If necessary, he was being ordered to kill Preston. Quietly, he said, "Understood, sir."

The words burned. Even though he knew, and Saavik knew, that they were being said merely for the sake of Spock's plan, they sounded like betrayal. Their sting stayed with him, not even fading when Morrow saluted him, and said the words he'd waited all his life to hear:

"Good luck, Captain Metcalfe."

He wasted no time visiting his apartment. There was nothing there that interested him. All his thoughts were with Saavik and Preston, somewhere between here and Pellegrinos. He reached into his mind and felt the telepathic bond with Saavik, in the background, but reassuringly _there._ At this distance, he couldn't tell what she was thinking, or even feeling. He presumed that he might be able to pick up strong feelings—like terror. Of course, he had no such bond with Preston, and the boy could die without Metcalfe knowing it, unless the knowledge somehow came through Saavik.

Would it? Or would she turn off her feelings entirely? He tried not to think about it.

He arrived at docking bay twelve in Starfleet's huge, orbital spacedock. Despite his other concerns, he wondered about the history of the ship he was to command. His orders specified a scout class, but that was all. No name was given, probably because they'd had to scramble to find him a ship.

It all seemed so last minute.

And yet Spock had said, in a brief meeting with Metcalfe before they'd docked at earth, that he had foreseen Morrow's next move. He said he would use it to their advantage.

Had he anticipated this?

Very likely he had. After all, what would be more advantageous to the mission to save Preston? The boy's stepfather was charged with maintaining Starfleet's interest. That put Metcalfe in a position to thwart any attempt by Fournier to take Preston into custody, or, worse, kill him. All he'd have to do is commit mutiny...

If only Morrow knew to whom he'd just given those orders.

The station engineer at the docking bay recognized Metcalfe. "Just in time, Captain. She's passed final inspection and ready for space. Surprising to see an old girl like that in such good shape." The man grinned. "I envy you, sir. Give me an old-fashioned ship I can really tinker with any day."

Metcalfe thanked the man and moved on through the access tunnel toward the transfer pods and viewing station. Great, he thought as he walked along, they've given me some old bucket of bolts that only an engineering hobbyist could get excited over.

He passed into the viewing station, where passengers waiting to be shuttled over could get a glimpse of their destination ship—or many of the other ships in Spacedock. Beyond the transparent aluminum viewport that made up the whole exterior wall, a scout class ship floated in the grasp of her support beams. She was clean, he had to admit. It looked like her surface had been refinished recently. Out of curiosity that was purely reflex, he advanced to the port to get a look at the top of her saucer section, and the name of his first command.

His breath caught as he read the newly painted letters: USS _Phoenix_. They'd given him Sulu's ship!

Well, it wasn't Sulu's ship anymore, and hadn't been for ten years; but it was the ship they'd all served on then: Sulu's first command. It was there he and Kaya and Kevin Carson had spent their first tour after graduation. It was there he'd met Aer'La and Doc Faulkner and Sernak. He hadn't seen most of them in years, except for Kevin, with whom he kept in sporadic touch, but they'd always felt like an extended family to him. He supposed that was true of one's first ship and its crew, especially on border patrol, where you were so isolated from the rest of the galaxy, and you really had to live with your crew mates.

"Captain, you're ten minutes late."

He hadn't heard anyone come up behind him, but someone was definitely there, and he knew the voice all too well. He turned, smiling despite himself, and feeling the familiar stirrings within him that human males couldn't avoid when she was near. As always, her vivid green complexion clashed horribly with her red uniform jacket. She looked like something that should be unpacked and set out only at Christmastime.

"Hello Aer'La," he said.

She returned his smile, something she didn't do often, for human males. She couldn't afford to encourage them. Born and bred on Orion as a slave, intended for the physical pleasure of males of all species, she couldn't completely suppress the pheremones which aroused men. She knew Metcalfe, though, and knew he wouldn't misinterpret a smile as an invitation. To him, she was an old friend.

He noticed the gleaming insignia on her shoulder and asked in mild surprise, "Lieutenant Commander? I thought I'd heard a promotion announcement last year."

"You did. I was a commander for about ten minutes. I can't seem to stay out of trouble."

"It seems to be a constant in the lives of the _Phoenix_ crew."

She nodded disapprovingly at the Commander's insignia still on his own shoulder. He hadn't bothered to change it. "At least one of us made good. And you should advertise."

"That I'm Captain of the lowest ship on the totem pole?" he laughed ruefully. " _Phoenix_ is my Elba."

"We intend to see you have more luck here than your Napoleon did."

"We? Who's 'we?'"

She smiled triumphantly, and he knew she was heartened by his curiosity. "I think you'd better come to the bridge, Captain."

He shrugged. "Why not? Permission to come aboard, sir?"

"Permission granted, Captain. Welcome home."

She escorted him to the Captain's quarters— _his_ quarters. He allowed her to fuss over him while she punched up a Captain's insignia and pinned it on his epaulet. Refusing Aer'La was like telling one's domineering older sister to take a flying leap, even if he was now the Captain and she his executive.

He was barely two steps out of the turbolift and onto _Phoenix_ 's cramped, familiar bridge when the words "Captain on the bridge!" rang out of her mouth, and everyone leapt to attention at his or her post. He smiled and started to laugh over the absurd pretention of the gesture, then gaped as he surveyed the faces before him, for he knew two of them quite well.

That CeCelia Faulkner stood beside the captain's chair really should not have surprised him. The elderly CMO had been a fixture aboard _Phoenix_ long before Sulu had commanded her. She liked border duty and was old enough not to care about career advancement any longer. On the other hand, the last person in all the universe he'd expected to see at communications was Kevin Carson, his face highlighted by his characteristic smug grin and a newly acquired red ponytail hanging off one shoulder. Damned if he would let Carson sense his pleasure at seeing them.

"What'd they send me—rehab cases?" he asked casually.

Dr. Faulkner smiled warmly, and, as was the privilege of _Phoenix_ 's grand dame, grabbed him by the arm and kissed him on the cheek.

"Volunteers, Captain," she croaked in a voice old as time yet stronger than steel. " Some of us prefer the climate in Siberia."

"I had decreed it was Elba."

She grinned. "Who am I to argue with the Captain?"

He turned to communications. "Lieutenant Carson. Nothing better to do?"

Carson cocked an eyebrow. "Starfleet's running out of straight men. I need someone to play off of."

The new captain nodded thoughtfully, knowing that he was the straight man, and Carson was... well, Carson was Carson. And Metcalfe didn't want to even think about how happy it made him to see his old friend again.

Nodding to the rest of the bridge crew, he said, "At ease, everyone. Our orders take us to the Romulan Neutral Zone. I'm sure we'll find it just as we left it. Commander Aer'La, does this aging beast even have warp drive?"

"I refer you to the chief engineer, sir. He's on his way now—"

The lift doors opened, and a spare, Vulcan figure emerged quickly, confirming, for Metcalfe, that there was some sort of conspiracy going on. "He has arrived. Welcome aboard, Captain."

"Sernak! Now I know you're not in trouble with Starfleet. What are you doing here?"

"I am on temporary assignment, Captain, by my own request. The redesigned engines need a capable hand, and Starfleet Operations can fill my position for some weeks."

"'Redesigned?' I thought this ship was ready for the scrap heap."

"Indeed. She was on the decommission list. With your captaincy announced, however, I thought it an ideal time to test a new warp core containment system which is less parasitical than those in standard use. By using less of the available energy for containment, the power available for warp engines is—"

Metcalfe nodded quickly, afraid that, at any moment, Sernak would usurp the main screen and begin a full-blown lecture... with diagrams. "Just give me the abstract, Sernak. What kind of power does this ship have?"

"Given proper maintenance and monitoring, she can maintain a cruising speed of warp 8.9823 for—"

"8.98—this ship can outrun the new _Enterprise_!"

"I believe that is what I said, Captain."

"Interesting. Carry on, Mr. Sernak," said Metcalfe. Things were looking up. Someone had made sure he would have the power he needed if he decided to..."Sernak," he said suddenly, as the Vulcan turned toward his own bridge station.

"Captain?"

"Have you had occasion to visit the Vulcan embassy recently?"

"In fact I have, Captain. The ambassador sends his regards."

"Thank you, Sernak." Allowing himself a brief moment to savor the feeling, Metcalfe sank into the Captain's chair. So, Spock had had a hand in all this. Which meant that the plan was proceeding as expected. Whatever the plan was.

Faulkner leaned in toward him and whispered, "What was that all about?"

Metcalfe smiled. "Just confirming my suspicions that life is a conspiracy."

The door to Morrow's office opened. He looked up reluctantly, knowing who, of all the officers at the Command Complex, had the effrontery to walk into his office unannounced. He sighed. He was really getting tired of this matter, if only because it meant he had to continue working so closely with Fournier.

"Yes, George?"

Looking too pleased with himself, Fournier tossed a PADD on Morrow's desk. He nodded at it. "The lab results on the DNA sample."

Morrow, of course, knew which DNA sample Fournier meant: the one that his agent on Vulcan, when they'd finally gotten the opportunity to get a JAG attorney in to visit him, had managed to smuggle out. It was taken from Saavik's child. As Morrow tried to study the report, Fournier clattered on.

"Every time we turn a corner we trip over some acquaintance of Kirk's."

Morrow couldn't read with Fournier's shadow across his desk. "What is it you're dying to tell me, George?"

"As expected, the boy shows the genetic instability caused by the protomatter in the Genesis matrix. His DNA is part Romulan, part Vulcan—"

"—tell me something I don't know, George."

"Okay. His DNA is also part human."

"What?" Morrow began scrolling the through the data, trying to find confirmation of the outlandish remark.

"The child has two biological fathers. One is Ambassador Spock. The other is Dr. David Marcus. Now tell me, am I paranoid, or is it really that far out of the question that Kirk's officers would commit open mutiny to save Kirk's grandson?"

Morrow found the written confirmation even as Fournier spoke the words. He shook his head and muttered, "Jesus."

"No. His disciples never touched off an intergalactic war."

"Neither will Kirk's." He sat back heavily in his chair. "Apparently, Sarek cut a deal with Chancellor Azetbur to get Saavik inside the Neutral Zone unmolested. Vulcan does not condone her actions but has begged the Empire's patience in allowing the Federation to handle matters internally. Sarek promised that Starfleet will be waiting for them when they return to Federation space... to make sure nothing was improperly removed."

"Only we can't _wait_ to catch them."

"Let them retrieve the secrets which would perfect Genesis? No. We can't. Much as I'd love to save Jim Kirk's only offspring—"

"Hah!"

"This is your last warning, Fournier, belay that attitude!"

"Aye sir."

"I can't let Genesis be resurrected. No matter what. I ordinarily wouldn't let the Klingons have any inkling that Genesis is even involved—"

"You can't!"

"I have to. The C-in-C agrees. Think about it, George. Do you know what the odds are that the Klingons already have agents on Pellegrinos? They may already know this matter stinks of Genesis! If we're not forthcoming—"

He was interrupted by the insistent buzz of his intercom. He nodded at it. "That's Kamarag now. I'd already put in the call."

It was no secret to anyone the low regard in which Klingon Ambassador Kamarag held humans. It was likewise no secret that he considered his assignment as the Empire's Ambassador-in-residence to Earth to be a low point in his family's history of service to the Empire. All of these things showed in his face whenever he appeared in public, or, as now, over a viewer in Harry Morrow's office.

And, as little as Kamarag liked humans, he liked Harry Morrow even less.

"Well," he snarled as Morrow answered. "Admiral Genesis."

Morrow withheld his impulse to once again ask the Ambassador not to call him that.

"Ambassador Kamarag. I—"

"I trust this is important, Morrow."

"I assure you, it is. Believe me, I'd rather not have to tell you this—I'd rather not have to call you at all—but the Federation's relationship with the Empire is of prime importance to us. We can't afford any incidents."

"Incidents such as?"

"Such as the abuse of diplomatic authority."

Kamarag's eyebrows shot up.

"Are you accusing me—!"

"Ambassador," said Morrow, gently but firmly, "I did not call to accuse, but to report... and offer my assistance."

That seemed to surprise the old Klingon. Harry Morrow was the last human he expected assistance from. It was his diplomatic bombast, after all, which had played a significant part in costing Morrow his job as Commander, Starfleet.

"Go on," Kamarag said.

"Are you aware that Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan has made arrangements with Chancellor Azetbur to permit a research expedition to the planet Pellegrinos, which lies in your Empire's free development zone, according to treaty?"

Kamarag looked annoyed. "Do you expect me to be aware of every minor boon granted to outworlders by the chancellor? We are no longer involved in a cold war with your Federation. Our borders are not, officially, closed."

Morrow regretted his choice of words. It must have been embarrassing to Kamarag not to know what Azetbur was up to in this matter. It showed a lack of faith in him that she'd made such a move without contacting him, which, obviously, she had. Of course, their borders weren't closed, but there was open, and then there was _open..._

"I didn't mean to imply you should be aware of it, no. It all seemed perfectly innocent to the Chancellor, and, I'm sure, to Ambassador Sarek, when he made the request."

Kamarag's eyes widened at the mention of his hated opponent's name, but he withheld comment.

"The bottom line," Morrow continued, "is that we've all been hoodwinked. The scientist leading that mission is not travelling to Pellegrinos to wind up the affairs of an old expedition, as was claimed, but to remove ancient technology which now legally belongs to your Empire."

"And why are you admitting to this?" demanded Kamarag, the additional words, "We wouldn't," unspoken, but understood.

"Because the technology is being used in an attempt to resuscitate Project Genesis. I think we both understand the implications of such an attempt, and both our governments are equally committed to preventing it from happening."

"What are you suggesting?" Kamarag asked darkly.

"Let us handle it," said Morrow.

"Why? So you can take Genesis for yourselves?"

Morrow sighed. That paranoid argument could continue forever. "No. So that we can stop our people before this gets started, and so your people won't get any bad publicity. If you send Klingon warriors in there, blasting away at Federation nationals, you know I can't control what the news media does with the story here on earth. Many people still have no love for your empire."

Kamarag nodded. He was belligerent, but not totally unreasonable. "That is a valid point, Admiral. And will you surrender copies of any data you take off that planet?"

"Of course," said Morrow graciously. "But our goal is to get that team out of there before they have a chance to take anything. Do we have a deal?"

Kamarag sighed. "Send your ships in, Morrow. From planetfall, you have twenty-four standard hours to get all Federation nationals off Pellegrinos. After that..."

"I understand. We'll keep you posted."

"You had better," threatened Kamarag, and then his image faded from the screen.

Fournier laughed bitterly. "It might be easier all around to let them wipe the _Pandora_ right out of space. Save us the trouble."

"No," said Morrow quietly. "Think about it, George: suppose they actually caught our Genesis baby—or even got hold of his corpse?"

"They'd know that Genesis wasn't the total failure we'd convinced them it was."

"Bingo. And they'd go to war. They couldn't hope to win, but they could do a lot of damage before they committed racial suicide, as they almost did last year. No, we've got to get them out of there—especially the boy." He hesitated as he added, "At any cost." He didn't want to give Fournier that kind of latitude, but he had to. The safety of the Federation depended on it.

Fournier was radiating with a veritable glow of empowerment. "I've already set up to take the _Enterprise_ in pursuit. It's the biggest and fastest we've got."

"And remember, if you can't get Saavik's party out within Kamarag's twenty-four-hour deadline..."

"I'll make sure there's nothing left for the Klingons to find."

Fournier's words clawed hungrily at Morrow's conscience. He didn't want to be the one to have ordered the death of Jim Kirk's grandson.

He tried to tell himself that the boy's death might be the only way to spare them all the horrors of a galactic war. He tried to tell himself that the boy would be better off dead than in the ruthless clutches of Klingon or Romulan scientists. He tried to tell himself that Jim Kirk would understand.

But he just wasn't that good at putting his conscience to rest.


	18. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saavik arrives on Pellegrinos; Spock asks a favor of a recently acquired friend; Fournier enlists the Enterprise-B in his pursuit of Saavik and Preston; Metcalfe briefs his old shipmates on his covert mission.

Chapter Fifteen

Half-buried amidst the desert sands of Pellegrinos, Chekov's little warp craft, the _Pandora_ , had been settled by her pilot in a comfortable landing only minutes before. Inside, Preston fidgeted by the hatch while Chekov secured the ship. Chekov had insisted that they all disembark together, since there could be Klingons on Pellegrinos. _Pandora_ 's sensors were not of the near-limitless capacity that a starship's were, so they weren't certain they were alone here.

Carol held Preston's hand, and he tugged on her arm in a very non-Vulcan manner. Saavik had spent the majority of the flight in telepathic rapport with the boy, teaching him language, and giving him all the knowledge he would need for his first conscious visit to the surface of a world. It was jarring to see such behavior from a child who looked so Vulcan, but no more so than to see David's young face peering at her from beneath Saturnine ears and eyebrows. Saavik hadn't time to instruct the child in Vulcan discipline. Who knew if she would even raise him as a Vulcan?

The hatch popped open at last, and fresh, if hot and thin, air sighed into the _Pandora_ 's tiny cabin. It was welcome, if only for being a change from the recycled gases they'd all breathed for two days.

Preston tried to leap out onto the surface, but Carol pulled him back, forcing him to take controlled steps down onto the sand with her. "Whoa, there, little one. Let's not conquer the whole planet on the first day, huh?"

He looked up at her, smiling angelically, and continued to pull. It occured to Carol that, if he were an ordinary Vulcanoid nine-year-old, he might be causing her real discomfort. As it was, he was weaker than a normal human child his age. Saavik came up beside them and took Preston's hand in her own.

"Come along, Preston," she said gently, clearly still uncomfortable with her role as a parent. "Your grandmother has work to do. Help me unload some supplies."

Saavik led the boy around to the ship's external cargo hold, while McCoy moved next to Carol and watched with her. Carol caught the soft shake of McCoy's head.

"He's getting weaker," the Doctor muttered.

"How long, Leonard?" she asked, looking up at him. She could tell he didn't want to answer that question, but she took his arm imploringly.

"Days," he whispered back. "At most."

Carol lowered her eyes, promising herself she wasn't going to cry until it was all over... whichever way it ended.

"Well," she said, attempting to make her voice strong and confident, "shall we press on? My dig is just to the west." She pointed toward the horizon, where a gentle rise and the presence of several automated beacon poles marked the entrance to the underground base camp. Together, she McCoy, Chekov and Uhura began to walk toward it.

Chekov worried over his tricorder. "No residual radiation from ship's engines. No life signs. I'd say it's been left alone since you evacuated, Dr. Marcus."

Uhura looked around her. "Did you really spend three years out here, Carol?"

Carol laughed, knowing the landscape must look bleak to those who didn't have a built-in interest in the planet. "I know the surface is pretty monotonous, Uhura, but this world is a scientific treasure trove. It once housed the center of the ancient Kallistan civilization, the most advanced early space-faring race we've discovered. They're extinct now, of course, but once, they ruled a chunk of this galaxy so large we haven't been able to define its boundaries yet."

"I've read about them," said Chekov. "They had the earliest known warp drive, millennia before any of our major powers passed into their industrial ages. Their technology was all lost, scattered. What happened?"

Carol shook her head. "We still don't know, Pavel. Some great cataclysm struck at the heart of their civilization, fragmenting it, eroding it from within. That may have happened right here, on this world. We haven't had time to gather evidence."

"When did you become an archaeologist, Carol?" asked McCoy.

"I didn't, not intentionally. The team that was excavating this site called me in after they discovered some records about the Kallistans' efforts to terraform unclaimed worlds. The process delved into the existing life matrix, reforming it at the molecular level."

Chekov nodded. "Sounds familiar."

"It should, Commander," said Carol. "It's the same project you and _Reliant_ spent months trying to find a home for. As near as we could tell, the Kallistans had perfected a benign form of the Genesis effect. It supplemented the existing matrix, rather than destroying it."

"That's why you were here to begin with," said Uhura.

"That's why they had to drag me away, kicking and screaming. Right before I left, I'd begun translating records which described the Kallistan process for re-engineering damaged or disadvantageous DNA structures. It could be just what the doctor ordered for Preston."

Uhura scanned the sky above them, watching the cloudless expanse as though her own built-in long-range sensors could detect the approach of hostile starships. "I hope so, Carol," she said grimly. "And I hope we can make use of your treasure trove of information before it's too late."

It was unheard of: an invitation from the Vulcan Embassy, issued to a junior consul in the office of the Romulan Ambassador to the Federation. Relations between Earth and Romulus being what they were, Ambassador Nonclus and his staff were really little more than damage control specialists, voicing hostility in the most civilized way possible, and minimizing its consequences if they could. They certainly were not welcome guests on earth.

So, while Nonclus had been included in large diplomatic functions at the Vulcan Embassy, with his staff occasionally invited to attend, no one of Pardek's stature had ever before been singled out to come, alone, for a private conference. But then, Ambassador Spock didn't do things they way his predecessors had, didn't think the way they did. Perhaps that was why he and Pardek had established what might even be called a burgeoning friendship at the Khitomer conference. Both were new at their jobs. Both were loose cannons on their staffs.

After he was passed through the main gate, where the guard was expecting him, a young Vulcan aide met him on the walkway and silently escorted him into the old building, up a set of stairs, into what had once been a private drawing room. Now it was an office. Spock sat at an ornate desk, bathed in the glow of a single lamp on the desk.

Pardek softly called his name.

Spock looked up, nodded a quiet greeting, and waved his guest to a chair opposite him.

"I was surprised to receive your call, Spock," said Pardek. "It is unusual for one of my rank to be given dispensation to visit Earth. I know it must be important, so I have forestalled my plans to return home—"

"I was aware of your planned return, Pardek. I ask you to maintain your plans."

"Then why—"

"I also ask that you carry a passenger," said Spock abruptly.

"Really?" He studied Spock for a moment. The Vulcan seemed a bit... expectant? Like someone preparing for battle or anticipating an exhilarating event of another kind. "Yourself?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Spock, I know we spoke of your visiting Romulus, but—"

"I need travel no farther than the Neutral Zone border. I expect to transfer to another vessel there."

"A rendez-vous at the Neutral Zone border? You lead an eventful life, my friend."

"The result of my involvement with certain humans, Pardek. They tend to give life a flavor of unpredictability. Will you be able to assist me?"

"Of course. In the name of our new-found friendship, how can I refuse so simple a favor?"

"Good." Spock stood, ending the conversation. "If it suits you, we can leave within the hour."

As Pardek rose, the viewer on Spock's desk—anachronistic amidst the antiques—sounded a soft but urgent tone. Spock flicked it on. "Yes?"

A pleasant, computer-generated voice said, "Message from Admiral Morrow, Commander, Starfleet Intelligence to Ambassador Spock. Starfleet Admiralty priority request: Admiral Morrow wishes you to make yourself available for questioning. He will arrive at this location within fifteen standard minutes. With respect, please be available at that time."

"Acknowledged," said Spock. He flicked the monitor back off and looked at Pardek. His eyebrow raised. "A priority request from the Admiralty is not ignored without explanation."

"I will delay my departure," said Pardek. "I can wait elsewhere if—"

Spock raised his hand. "I know this request will generate many questions, Pardek. I ask that you withhold them until we are underway. Could you arrange to have us beamed directly to your ship... now?"

"Captain, it's Commodore Fournier's shuttle."

"Fournier?" demanded John Harriman's voice over the intercom speaker. "What the devil—?" He broke off, and even over the comm-link, Demora Sulu could hear her Captain's ire that his superior had shown up unannounced, his trepidation about what kind of emergency could bring the Commodore to them so suddenly. "Hold him there, Sulu. I'll be right down."

Through the docking bay viewport, she watched the elegantly designed warp shuttle, which the computer had already identified as belonging to the Operations Commander, arc gently around to match _Enterprise_ 's acceleration and float to a rest against her main docking port. The panel indicators showing pressure equalization beyond the lock flashed from red to yellow to green, and the hatch slid open. It had not opened to its full width when Commodore George Fournier began to stride through.

Demora stood at rigid attention, waiting for the Commodore to ask for permission to come aboard; but he didn't. Odd, but rank, as they said, had its privileges.

"Ensign..." he began abruptly, his feet never ceasing their anxious movement.

"Sulu, sir."

He rolled his eyes impatiently. "Of course. I should have remembered. Take me to Captain Harriman immediately."

His manner intrigued her. When he had addressed her class at the Academy, he'd projected an air of quiet, unhurried competence and geniality, quite in keeping with the image of him that they'd all come to admire in the news media. Now he was agitated, almost to the point of distraction. Was he that upset about an emergency, or was this the side of himself he didn't show at public engagements? Either way, it put her off, and went a long way toward explaining why her father had always seemed so cool toward his superior.

"The Captain's on his way here, sir," Demora explained. "When I told him it was your shuttle docking, he left the bridge immediately."

For a moment, she thought he was going to shout at her, as if she or Captain Harriman had done something wrong. Then he seemed to calm himself. "I suppose that's good enough. Let's try to meet him halfway, shall we?"

And again, he was moving. Actually, it occurred to her, he'd never really stopped.

They met Harriman coming out of the turbolift. He offered words of welcome, but Fournier cut him off.

"Let's return to the bridge, Captain. I'm on a priority assignment, and I need you to get me to Pellegrinos at your best possible speed."

"Inside Klingon space, sir?" asked Harriman, stepping back onto the lift and motioning them inside.

"I don't believe it's moved," said Fournier impatiently. "We have Ambassador Kamarag's full cooperation. Our mission is partly on behalf of the Klingon Empire."

The lift doors closed, and it shuddered gently to life.

"If I may ask, Commodore...?"

Fournier took a deep breath, then scowled. "Lt. Commander Saavik of the _Excelsior_ ,"—he looked sideways at Demora, as if she were responsible for some hideous crime—"has breached Klingon treaty space on an alleged 'diplomatic' errand. We have reason to believe she is actually attempting to retrieve technology from Pellegrinos which the Federation considers... sensitive."

"Sensitive, sir?"

"Captain, suffice it to say that, if Commander Saavik achieves her goal, we will find ourselves quickly at war with the Klingon Empire, and quite probably the Romulans as well. She must be stopped... at all costs."

He looked again at Demora, and she got the distinct impression that, whatever Saavik was up to, Fournier held her father, Saavik's Captain, responsible for it. Furthermore, he seemed to visit the blame on the Captain's daughter as well. It wasn't a position a young, ambitious officer wanted to be in, having one of Starfleet's most respected officers angry at her.

But it was a position she clearly was in, through no fault of her own. As soon as she was off-duty, she would have to place a secure call to _Excelsior_ , to have a chat with dear old Dad...

_"You're married?"_

Metcalfe chuckled at Aer'La's expression of shock. It took a lot to surprise her. Very little to anger her, but a lot to surprise her.

"Essentially," he said, downing the last bit of ice cold scotch from his glass. He'd drunk it fast. It was smooth—fifteen years old. Aer'La had been saving it for a special occasion, and this impromptu reunion had struck her as that.

Sernak was there in Metcalfe's cabin, as were Dr. Faulkner and Kevin Carson. This was the re-enactment of an old tradition with them. Years ago, during that short, but memorable tour they'd served on this ship under Sulu, they'd taken to gathering at least twice a week in Metcalfe's quarters. They'd shared a bottle of whatever one of them came up with, good or bad, and built up quite a camaraderie. Aer'La had impressed them with tales of Orion. Carson had displayed his razor wit. Sernak... well, it was just plain funny to watch a very young Vulcan try to fit in with a band of humans. They'd taught him to drink. It had never shattered his Vulcan facade, but he often passed out, waking up the next morning in any number of compromising positions and outfits, courtesy of his fellow officers.

Doc Faulkner hadn't joined them in those days. She was an elder ship's surgeon, they a pack of raw academy grads and a troublemaking security chief. Now, of course, this was the Captain's party.

Everyone was there but Kaya.

They'd drunk the first toast to her memory. Metcalfe had proposed it, thinking the others might be hesitant to mention her in front of him. After the few moment's quiet reflection which followed, he'd dropped the bomb on them.

"What do you mean you're 'essentially' married, kid?" asked Faulkner. "Is there a non-essential way to do it? Is she a little bit pregnant?"

"Is she a she?" asked Carson.

Metcalfe grinned at him. "Most emphatically. As to the 'essentially' part, it's just that we haven't had time for a ceremony."

Faulkner dramatically wiped her forehead. "Whew! It's not binding! Thank god! We can still save him!"

Metcalfe shook his head. "Sorry. No such luck. In this case the verbal agreement is binding. Vulcan law."

The others were speechless. Sernak's eyebrow went up. "Fascinating."

Finally, Carson found his tongue. "You married a Vulcan? Have you lost your mind... or any more vital parts of your anatomy?"

Captain Metcalfe considered flinging his freshly refilled glass of scotch in his communications officer's face. He decided scotch was too hard to come by.

"It's a long story," he said quietly. "Let's just say that circumstances required... that is... well, dammit, we bonded."

Sernak nodded. "That, for Vulcans, is the most important component of marriage."

Aer'La's eyes narrowed. "But Vulcans only—I mean—was it... that time?"

Sernak shook his head. "Females do not enter _pon far_."

"Then how did this happen?" demanded Carson, gesturing at his old friend. "What logic could there be in marrying him?"

"Would you believe she's in love with me?"

"No," said Carson emphatically.

"A Vulcan would not readily admit such a thing," said Sernak.

Metcalfe shrugged. "She's half-Romulan too."

Faulkner's face dropped into her hands and she moaned loudly. "It's hopeless! He's beyond our help!"

Aer'La, still confused, did not join the two humans in loud outbursts. "Terry... who is she?"

"Lt. Commander Saavik, of the _Excelsior_."

"Ambassador Spock's ward," observed Sernak.

"The very same."

Metcalfe couldn't help smiling at their surprise. The last thing they'd expected, in the wake of Kaya's death, was for him to marry again. Hearing a name for his new bride seemed to drive the reality home to them. They fell silent for a moment, staring at him. Then, with a sideways glance at the others, Celia Faulkner stood and launched herself at him, clutching him in a fierce hug.

"Dammit, kid, you never fail to surprise me! Congratulations!" She kissed him. Aer'La, too, jumped up to embrace her captain. Sernak, of course, merely sat and watched.

And Carson shook his head. "Well, I make it a policy not to associate with married people. I'm sure as hell not going to hug you."

Sernak, who seemed to be assessing this news as he would a logic puzzle, asked, "Captain, is it not customary for newly married officers to request posting together? I do not mean to pry, but—"

Metcalfe sighed slowly. "You're not prying, Sernak. I wish more than anything Saavik was with me. Ordinarily, as Captain, I could have asked for her, but... circumstances didn't allow it. Saavik—" he tried to imagine where he could start telling them the story.

"You're in trouble, aren't you kid?" asked Faulkner.

"Saavik is. So I guess I am too. You see—"

He was interrupted by the bleep of his intercom. Kevin's assistant appeared on the screen.

"Captain, we've been hailed," she said with gently urgency. "It's a Romulan diplomatic vessel. They say they have a medical emergency and need our assistance."

Metcalfe turned to Aer'La. "While I was off border patrol, did the Romulans suddenly start running to us for help?"

"No."

Metcalfe was uneasy. The Romulans had their honor, but they were clever and devious fighters. They'd lured Federation ships into trouble before with phony distress calls.

"Patch him through here."

The Romulan who appeared on the screen was neither remarkably old nor remarkably young. His face had a strong, impressive dignity, however, if a bit of a sinister caste. When he spoke, his voice was strong and filled with authority. If he was not a figure of import in the Romulan Empire now, he soon would be. It was not the voice of an underling.

"Captain Metcalfe, greetings. This is Pardek, vice-consulate of the Romulan Empire to the Federation."

Metcalfe smiled with one corner of his mouth. "Consul. What can I do for you?"

"One of my officers is in desperate need of medical attention. Mine is a small ship, with no surgical facilities. We are asking for the services of your ship's surgeon and her sickbay facilities. If the patient is not beamed aboard your vessel immediately, he will die. He cannot survive the trip to the nearest Romulan world with hospital facilities."

"You want to beam someone—or something—aboard my ship? How do I know it won't be an active photon torpedo... or a tri-cobalt bomb?"

Pardek's gaze hardened. He said quietly, "Captain, I know you were helmsman on the _Enterprise_ , but don't let Captain Kirk's paranoia influence your judgement. A man is dying!"

Aer'La reached past Metcalfe and pressed the silencer, preventing Pardek from hearing her. "You were never helmsman on the _Enterprise_."

Metcalfe nodded. "Not in this life. Either they've got their intelligence wrong, or..." He chewed his lip thoughtfully. Suddenly, it was obvious to him just what Pardek was up to, and who his 'patient' must be. "Doc, wanna join me in the Transporter room?"

"But—" Aer'La said.

He flicked the monitor's audio back on. "Mr. Pardek, stand by to beam your patient aboard."

"But—" said Aer'La again.

Metcalfe smiled at her. "Station your best people outside the transporter room, phasers at ready. Just in case I'm wrong."

Spock was the last person they expected to see. Of course, none of the _Phoenix_ crew knew of the last week's events, nor of the newly formed alliance between Metcalfe and the former _Enterprise_ officers.

Metcalfe knew it was time he changed that. It was time to tell them everything. They deserved that consideration.

So, inviting Spock to join the gathering in the Captain's quarters, Metcalfe held his first mission briefing aboard _Phoenix_. If Spock was reticent to have his plans unveiled to Metcalfe's crew, he did not say so. In fact, he contributed to the summary of events.

When they had explained how Preston came to be, where Saavik had taken him and why, and Morrow's orders for retrieval, Aer'La asked, "So our official mission is to observe Fournier?"

"No," said Metcalfe. "Our official mission is what I told you earlier—border patrol. My assignment to go to Pellegrinos is Morrow's private scheme."

"Captain," Doc Faulkner asked, "I'd like to get something out in the open. Do you intend to carry out Morrow's orders? Stop the Pellegrinos mission and hand the boy over to Starfleet?"

It was not a question he would answer for any other group, but he let out a long breath and said, "No."

Everyone exchanged looks of uncertainty.

"Since the Captain sees fit to bring you into his confidence," said Spock, "I will tell you it is our intention to ensure that Drs. Marcus and McCoy complete their work on Pellegrinos. It is the boy's only chance for survival. To give him over to Starfleet would be a death sentence."

"And isn't challenging the _Enterprise_ also a death sentence?" Kevin Carson asked.

His tone was as bitter as it always was, and his offhand manner offended Metcalfe, as it always did.

But Spock said, "If by that statement, Lieutenant, you mean to ask if our task will be a dangerous one, the answer is yes. Commodore Fournier has the fleet's most powerful vessel at his disposal, and he is extremely determined to protect the Federation from the horrors of Genesis. He will not anguish over the safety of any who stand in his way."

"Meaning he'll kill us," observed Carson.

Metcalfe kept his voice as restrained as he could. "No one's asking you to go, Mr. Carson."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're taking this ship to Pellegrinos."

"In the capacity of an observer," said Spock, "per Admiral Morrow's order. Fournier will know that. Only Captain Metcalfe and I will be acting outside Starfleet authority."

"Using this ship," said Carson.

"Our work will likely be on the planet's surface," said Spock. "We can be beamed there or take a shuttle. The _Phoenix_ need not be involved."

Aer'La crossed her arms and glared daggers at Carson. "I have a problem with _Phoenix_ not being involved if her Captain is."

Carson was not moved. "There's a over three dozen people on this ship who might not agree with you, if it means laying down their lives."

"As I said—" Spock began.

"Ambassador," Metcalfe interrupted. "Begging your pardon, this discussion is turning toward... internal matters. I am therefore closing it."

Aer'La started to say something, caught the expression on his face, and let it go.

Metcalfe said firmly, "The situation is this: Upon receipt of Admiral Morrow's orders, I will divert this ship to Pellegrinos, where we will observe events on behalf of Starfleet Intelligence. At the point that Fournier threatens the safety of my family, I will turn command of this ship over to Aer'La, and Spock and I will do what... needs to be done. This briefing is closed. You're all dismissed."

They left, including Spock. Kevin Carson remained. At least, Metcalfe reflected, that saved him having to ask him to stay. That would have drawn the others' attention to their disagreement, as if they hadn't noticed already.

Metcalfe turned a hard gaze on him. "Well?"

Carson shrugged. "I've said my piece."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because you want me to be."

Metcalfe snorted. "Sernak taught you a little mind reading?"

"I've always been able to read you."

That got under Metcalfe's skin, and Carson knew it. Metcalfe hated to be thought predictable. "I don't suppose it makes any difference to you that that's no way to speak to your Captain."

"You're abandoning your captaincy."

"Not yet."

"Fine," said Carson. "So put me in the brig, because I think you're a fool."

"A fool?"

"A damned fool."

"Thanks for clarifying."

"You're welcome."

Metcalfe sat and drummed his fingers on the desk for a few moments. So many of their conversations were like games of chicken. The challenge, the intensity built, each waiting for the other to surrender. Metcalfe, of course, could play the trump card and call Carson insubordinate. Carson would call that a cheap shot.

He'd be right.

"If you have a problem with my decisions," Metcalfe said finally, "bring them to me. Privately."

"I would, if I didn't think the others agreed."

"If the others agreed, they'd have said so."

"Not to you."

"Oh, not to me." Metcalfe gave a false chuckle. "I suppose I intimidate them."

"No. They just know that disagreeing with you is like challenging a brick wall to a staring contest. Pointless. They know if they buck you, they'll lose your friendship, and that's too high a price for the privilege of having an opinion."

For a moment, Metcalfe was blinded by fury. This was high up on the list of the worst insult Carson had ever flung at him. And there had been many such insults. Many of them had had their basis in fact... just as this one did.

He spoke softly. "Sounds like your new Captain is a pig-headed tyrant. Maybe you should transfer the hell out."

Carson shook his head. "Can't. He'd go and get himself killed, and he still owes me ninety credits from our last poker game." Finally he smiled.

As quickly as it had built up, the tension was dissipated. That was the way with the two of them. But, before Metcalfe had a chance to say anything conciliatory, Carson added, "You're still a damned fool."

"Why?" he asked reasonably.

"How long have you known this woman?"

"That's a difficult question to answer."

"And I guess it doesn't matter. What matters is this: Are you—you want to hit me now?"

"Excuse me?" asked Metcalfe.

"I figure you're gonna deck me when I ask this. If you go ahead an do it before I ask, at least I might get a straight answer."

"I'll give you a straight answer," Metcalfe promised.

"Good. Are—"

"But I reserve the right to deck you."

"Fine." He sighed. "Are you sure Starfleet isn't right? Is one kid's life worth the safety of the Federation?"

Metcalfe took a deep breath. Carson was right—he did want to deck him. "Maybe that's not for us to decide."

"That's a pretty cowardly answer. Captains are supposed to make that kind of decision every day. Are you thinking with your mind, or as a man in love? "

Metcalfe was silent a long time. Finally, he said, "She's my wife, Kevin. If she's wrong—if killing her child is for the best... I'd rather go down fighting by her side. I don't want to live in a universe where I have to let her be hurt."

Carson nodded. "That's about what I expected."

"I swear to you, I won't let the crew be harmed. I'll fight this battle without them."

"Do me a favor?"

"Sure."

Carson flashed his patented crooked grin. "When the time comes, give them a choice. They may not want you to fight alone."


	19. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol and McCoy find the key to a potential cure for Preston. The Enterprise and the Phoenix face off in space.

Chapter Sixteen

"Leonard!"

Carol's excited cry echoed off the walls of the partially buried building where they'd been studying fragments of ancient written records. Despite himself, McCoy winced at the loud sound, for the crumbling structure made him feel that the slightest shock could literally bring the house down.

"You found something?"

"The beginning of something, yes. This is part of the final report on that patient we've found so many references to. Look." She twisted her hands over the somewhat clumsy controls of the protective energy field projector she'd set up to work with the ancient records, printed on flimsies of a material like earth paper. The waldoes, actually low intensity, precision force fields, twisted the page in question so he could see it.

McCoy scanned the page for a moment, then, feeling silly, turned to the readout on the tricorder sitting on a nearby camp table. He couldn't read the ancient Kallistan language, after all. It had taken the archaeological team decades to even begin to work up a translation table.

"They actually reshaped the genetic material, causing it to recode," he observed.

Carol nodded. "It'll still take time to allow for the differences between human and Kallistan genetic structures, but it's a start."

McCoy reached out and hugged her with one arm. "It is that. You realize we'll be breaking the law six ways from Sunday? This is genetic engineering in its most blatant form."

Carol nodded, serious now. "Is that a problem for you? I've always considered it a little silly that we outlawed an entire area of science and technology, just because it created Khan. It could have done a lot of good, too."

He shrugged. "They're calling us every kind of criminal now, I'm sure. Why not give them extra ammunition, to keep them busy?"

"I'll finish scanning this batch of records. They—"

She broke off as Uhura charged into the room, winded. She carried her communicator, its antenna grid open. "They're here," she said urgently.

From the tiny speaker, a voice familiar to McCoy blared out. It was George Fournier. "—immediately. Repeat, this is U.S.S. _Enterprise_ , calling Lt. Commander Saavik, or any Federation nationals on the planet's surface. You are in violation of treaty with the Klingon Empire. Please respond with your coordinates and prepare to be brought aboard—"

Angrily, McCoy reach out and snapped the communicator shut, silencing the grating voice. "How soon can they find us with their sensors?" he asked.

"If they began that broadcast as soon as they came into range," said Uhura, "they'll still be a few minutes from picking us up on short range sensors."

"Can you hold them off?"

Uhura smiled. "I can jury-rig a low-power generator to put out interference on all sensor frequencies. It'll hold for about an hour."

McCoy nodded. "Do it. Every minute Carol has to collect more data brings us that much closer to saving Preston."

Uhura started to leave, then stopped. "Leonard," she asked quietly, "what are you going to do with that data if we're all in _Enterprise_ 's brig?"

He hesitated. He knew Spock had a plan, but where the hell was Spock? Not for the first time, he fervently wished Jim Kirk were here calling the shots.

"We'll figure something out," he said casually, but he knew his easy manner didn't fool her, anymore than it fooled him.

On the _Enterprise_ bridge, Demora Sulu waited with tense anticipation for the science officer's report. Although Fournier had been cagey about admitting who was on the surface with Saavik, she'd learned from her father that they had several friends down there. Fournier was the current popular voice of Starfleet—the public's symbol of all they stood for—but she couldn't help but be anxious for the safety of old friends below. If they'd broken the law, it was her job to help bring them to justice, and certainly Starfleet wouldn't harm them in any way.

So why did Fournier seem so like a hanging judge as he paced the bridge, waiting for answers? And why did his eyes go so hard when the science officer shook her head and spoke? "Sorry, Commodore. Sensors do confirm two Vulcanoid and four human life forms on the surface, but our probes are being interfered with. Some kind of resonance is being generated—"

Fournier cut her off, his tone biting. "—And we can't get a transporter lock. I knew they'd pull something." He continued his pacing, looking pointedly at Captain Harriman, who Demora could tell was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the Commodore's presence on his bridge. "They're getting our message, though, and they can't stop us from beaming down. We'll—"

"Sir!" Demora called out, as a telltale blip appeared at the edge of her tactical display. "Long range sensors show vessel on approach at warp 8.72."

Fournier was immediately at her shoulder, leaning against her console. "What?" he demanded. "What ship? Whose?"

She was pleased that she was ahead of him. She'd already run an automated identity authentication. "Identity request acknowledged. Vessel is U.S.S. _Phoenix_."

Fournier swore quietly. "Metcalfe! How in hell did he get here so fast?"

Harriman said helpfully, "Perhaps Admiral Morrow sent him to assist—"

"Captain," Fournier cut in coldly, "I do _not_ require assistance from Terrence Metcalfe."

Metcalfe? Her father's old friend and protege? Demora had met him on several occasions, and liked him, probably for the same reasons her father did: he was passionate, uncompromising, and though prone to bad temper, fiercely loyal.

Throughout history, countless social engineers had tried to breed those characteristics out of the race. Demora didn't know if there would be a human race without those traits. It would have long ago rotted and fallen from the evolutionary tree.

What was Metcalfe doing on _Phoenix_? He was an agent in Starfleet Intelligence now, not a line officer. Was he, like some of her father's former shipmates, really involved in some kind of illegal activity? Fournier made it sound like terrorism. Demora couldn't easily accept any of it, any more than she could have accepted that Fournier was becoming unstable. But how else to label his behavior now?

"Raise shields!" Fournier said to her.

Having kept silent long enough, apparently, Captain Harriman said, "Sir, a defensive posture against a friendly vessel—"

"Friendly my ass, Captain! They're in unauthorized space. Raise shields or stand down."

Trying not to appear too obvious, Demora peered over her shoulder at her Captain, whose superior was directly challenging his ability to command. She need not have been so careful, for all of her fellow officers had turned to look at the two men at the center of the suddenly very quiet bridge.

Harriman held the older man's gaze a long moment, his expression assuring the Commodore that this matter was not resolved. Then he said quietly, "Raise shields, Sulu. Get me ship to ship."

"Hailing frequencies open, sir," said the communications officer.

Harriman stepped forward and faced the main viewscreen. "Commander _Phoenix_ from Commander _Enterprise_. You are in restricted space. Please state your business."

The screen flashed to life, showing the bridge of the scout framing the features of Metcalfe. Surprisingly, his shoulder bore Captain's insignia. Demora thought he looked tired, and even a little thinner than normal; but he spoke with the authority befitting his new position. "This is Captain Terrence Metcalfe of the _Phoenix_."

"Captain Metcalfe, you are in unauthorized space. Withdraw immediately."

"Commodore Fournier, how nice to see you," Metcalfe smiled. "I'm afraid I can't withdraw, sir. I have my orders."

Fournier grinned a predator's grin. "And what orders might those be?"

"To represent Intelligence interests on this mission. Admiral Morrow believes it's too sensitive for Starfleet to tackle without our input."

"Nice try, Captain."

"I'm transmitting our orders now. _Enterprise_ communications should have no trouble verifying their authenticity."

"I don't doubt your orders, Metcalfe. They sound just like Morrow. What I doubt is you. Those are friends of yours down there."

"So they are."

"They're not cooperating, and this is too crucial an issue for me to take chances. I may have to take drastic action."

"I'm here to determine if that's called for," said Metcalfe.

"And if you think it's not?"

"I'll stop you."

Fournier laughed out loud. "How, might I ask? With a reconditioned scout?"

"It's not always the size of the weapon that's important, Fournier. I'm sure your mother must have told you that... often."

Fournier's face flushed crimson. For a moment, it seemed possible he was unable to speak. Then his politician's genes took over. "You may observe all you wish, Captain. You may make your report on my actions, question them to the Nth degree in a court of military law." He stepped closer to the viewer, as if there were no vacuum of space between them and he and Metcalfe were face to face. "But you lift one finger to interfere, and I'll blow you out of space. Am I clear?"

"Actually," said Metcalfe, "you're raving."

"Say what you will. I'm in command of this operation."

"You're out for blood, Fournier. You can resolve this mission without violence, you just don't want to."

"As usual, Captain, your evaluation is in error."

"Then prove it. Let those scientists down there finish their work. Let them save the life they came here to save. Then you and I can take them back to Starfleet together and let the council work this out—without violence."

Fournier paused a moment, his fist clenching and unclenching. "You make a pretty speech, Captain. I'm sure you did well on the Academy debate team. But this is not about saving innocent lives. It's about resurrecting the most deadly weapons technology the galaxy has ever known. I can't allow them to continue. No matter the cost. Morrow knows that too. I'm sure his orders to you reflect that fact. You're just carrying out your own agenda here."

Metcalfe started to reply. Fournier cut him off. "Furthermore, Captain, I'm sure you're aware that resurrecting the Genesis technology within Klingon space exposes a non-member civilization to a technology that could alter their racial destiny—even wipe them out completely. Commander Saavik and her companions are in direct violation of the Prime Directive. In attempting to assist them, so would you be.

"You have two minutes to withdraw your vessel and stand to at a location beyond phaser range. If you have not withdrawn by that time, I will take your ship by force, and see you stand court martial for violating the Prime Directive. Two minutes, by my mark—now. Ensign—break channel."

The screen went black as Metcalfe's mouth opened to reply.

"He's right," said Aer'La soberly, grimacing at Metcalfe and Spock. "This is Klingon space, and the Prime Directive applies. You're playing fast and loose with Morrow's orders. I doubt he'll back you up."

"I know he won't," said Metcalfe quietly. "So does Fournier. My claiming authority is all part of the war dance. In the end, my crossing him is mutiny."

"It doesn't have to be," said Faulkner. "If we can prove when we get back—"

Metcalfe shook his head. "I'm not going back. Starfleet has coldly, rationally decided to murder my wife's child. I won't even pretend to be a party to that. It's too high a price to pay to keep this uniform."

He stood and faced his first officer. "Lieutenant Commander, I have stated my intention to willfully defy the authority of Starfleet Command, and to consciously violate the Prime Directive. It is your responsibility to relieve me of command."

She hesitated, staring at him pensively. Her answer came slowly and painfully. "Don't ask me to do that, Metcalfe. I'd sooner break the damned Prime Directive."

"You will be charged with just that, Commander," said Spock. "As will any of this crew who do not take action against us."

Aer'La sighed. "The Prime Directive is a law, Ambassador—nothing more. Like all laws, it can be misused to allow things which violate all standards of morality."

That she spoke the truth, Metcalfe knew too well. Aer'La's history was one of slavery—a condition the Federation taught its children no being should ever be subjected to. Slavery was mandated by law on Orion.

Spock raised an eyebrow. "And are all of you willing to face charges of mutiny?"

Sernak stood formally at his engineering monitor station. "Ambassador Spock knows that I stand with him, as logic demands."

Metcalfe looked to Faulkner, who smiled broadly. "Doc?"

"My medical oath supersedes any to Starfleet. We can't let him kill that child."

There was one last opinion which really counted, that of the officer who made him so angry so often, and whose approval mattered so much. "Kev?"

Kevin Carson shook his head. "You're a bloody optimistic fool, Metcalfe."

Metcalfe knew it surprised the others that he didn't get angry. Maybe it was the captain's braid. "You want to withdraw? I could send you over to _Enterprise_ —"

A rueful, crooked smile came to his old friend's lips. "No. You'd explode from self-righteous piety. I'm in."

Metcalfe found himself smiling as well. "Then raise Fournier. We have an answer for him."

As he waited for the channel to open, he couldn't help overhearing his Chief Medical Officer, whispering to Spock. "I'll never know if they're best friends or bitter enemies."

Nor did he miss Spock's reply: "As Captain Kirk once said of two quarreling parties, 'I'm not sure they're sure."

The screen image of Pellegrinos against the stars winked out, replaced by an image of _Excelsior_ 's bridge. George Fournier stood at the center of the pickup, his expression smug.

"Well, Captain, have you decided to fly in the face of tradition and obey the Prime Directive?"

Metcalfe smiled, exhaled slowly, and spoke words that exhilarated him, for all that they would have seemed sacrilege a decade ago.

"Commodore Fournier... Fuck the Prime Directive."


	20. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock and Metcalfe beam down to rescue their friends, while the Enterprise prepares to fire on them.

Chapter Seventeen

On _Enterprise_ , Fournier was taken aback despite himself. He knew Metcalfe was a loose cannon, and prone to intemperate outbursts, but even an angry man knew that the log recorders taped every word exchanged on the bridge. How could he expect not to be found guilty at a court martial after making a statement like that? Well, there was always the insanity defense...

"Captain, are you quite sure you understand what you're doing?"

Metcalfe, quite against character, displayed no anger. In fact, he smiled pleasantly. "Quite sure, Commodore. Whatever you may purport to believe, there's more to command than just following rules."

"Captain Harriman," said Fournier, his eyes not leaving Metcalfe's, "arm phasers."

"Sir—"

"Divert all non-essential power to shields," said Metcalfe to his first officer, a renegade Orion who'd caused HQ trouble on more than one occasion.

"I can just keep battering until your shields are gone, Metcalfe."

"That would be counter-productive. Isn't your job to get the evil renegades off Pellegrinos?"

"Cut the channel!" Fournier hissed.

Harriman advanced on him, one hand raised in protest. "Commodore, you can't—"

"I'm your commanding officer, Captain. Don't forget that. Open an intraship channel," he said to the young man at communications. At the ensign's nod, he cleared his throat and began.

"All hands, this is Commodore Fournier. You are entitled to know that we may be about to enter into armed conflict with another Starfleet vessel. I know that you, like myself, are filled with apprehension at the prospect of firing on comrades and friends. I ask that you take comfort in the knowledge that our actions are for the good of the whole Federation, and in the interests of galactic peace. These are goals more important than any individual or small group. I ask, also, only that you do your duties to the best of your abilities, as I have every confidence you will. Fournier out." He nodded, and the channel was closed.

Harriman observed him with a lopsided smirk. "Now that you've secured my crew's vote in the next presidential election, Commodore, would you mind sharing your intentions with the rest of us?"

"I'll ignore that, Captain. Ensign Sulu, give me a diagram of _Phoenix_." A profile cutaway appeared on the main viewer. Fournier crossed to it and gestured at the midsection of the ship. "I want you to aim phasers, set for maximum power and minimum bombardment... here."

"Her aft matter-antimatter coupling," said Harriman.

"Precisely. That will disable phasers. She carries no photon torpedoes, so—"

"You could destroy the ship."

Fournier regarded him coldly. "That's a chance I'm willing to take. Ensign, you are to monitor their shields. If they drop them—even for a moment, I want you to fire a continuous barrage."

Harriman nodded. "You're boxing them in."

"I am. And now I'm going to beam down to Pellegrinos. Can you handle your duties here, Captain?"

To Harriman's credit, he didn't even flinch at the insult. "Yes sir."

"Good. Assemble a security team and have them waiting in the transporter room. I also want a photon torpedo brought there, with a time-delay detonator."

"You're beaming down a torpedo, sir? What about the Klingon government? This is their world."

"And Genesis may be on its surface. Consider it a bug-bomb, Captain. We're fumigating the planet before they move in."

On _Phoenix_ 's bridge, the air was tense as everyone watched the _Enterprise_ on the screen. A short span of seconds had passed since Fournier had broken communications, and no volley of phaser fire had come their way.

"Looks like he was bluffing," said Metcalfe.

Spock shook his head. "Not precisely. I should say he is prepared to use force but doesn't yet consider it necessary."

"Okay then," said Metcalfe, "if I haven't gotten us into an immediate battle with the biggest ship in the fleet, the question is, 'what do we do next?'"

"We beam down to the planet's surface," said Spock.

Kevin Carson got up stood by the Captain's side. "If we drop shields to beam down, they'll fire on us."

"That is a 97.834 per cent certainty," Spock agreed.

Metcalfe shrugged. "We have to get down there."

"Captain," Sernak called from his monitoring station, "the _Enterprise_ has lowered shields. Transporters are beaming a party to the planet's surface."

"We could get in a shot—" began Carson.

"No!" Metcalfe said sharply. "I won't fire on the _Enterprise_. Our actions must all be defensive."

"But they will fire on us," said Aer'La.

Metcalfe turned to the Ambassador. "Captain Spock, if you were in Fournier's place, what would you do?"

"He is not aware of your principles, Captain. He certainly believes you will fire on him."

"So his main goal will be knocking out our weapons?" Metcalfe asked.

"He could just destroy the ship," said Aer'La.

Spock shook his head. "And deprive himself of criminals to put on public trial? No, Commander. Fournier is a political animal. He will want us alive."

"The aft matter-antimatter coupling."

Metcalfe turned to Sernak, who had spoken. It took him a moment to realize that he was answering the question Metcalfe had asked Spock.

"It would be logical," said Spock.

Sernak explained. "A too-powerful blast could trigger a core-breach, destroying the ship."

"Yeah," Metcalfe said, and he found himself smiling. "But this isn't a gargantuan starship, it's a scout. We have maneuverability they don't." He turned to his exec. "Aer'La, Spock and I will beam down. The shields will be out for—" He pointed to Sernak.

"1.387 seconds," said the Vulcan.

"—What he said. When I give the word, I want you to pivot, turning the bow of the ship into the trajectory of the beam."

"We'll take major hull damage," said Aer'La, though not in argument.

"But on the toughest part of the ship. Sernak, work up a worst-case scenario. If a section's going to lose pressure, clear it. Put people in environment suits—whatever it takes. Do not return fire. Once we're gone, Aer'La, I'll leave it to you. If it's necessary to save the crew, surrender to _Enterprise_."

"Captain—" she started to protest. He knew she would choose to stand by his side and go down fighting, left to her own devices.

"I won't sacrifice the crew. This is my fight, and Spock's. You don't have to go down with me."

She sighed. "Okay, I won't argue. What about your transporter beam? _Enterprise_ will know you've beamed down. You'll have no element of surprise, and we may not be able to beam you back up."

"Don't worry, we'll get out. As to getting down there unnoticed, can you create a distraction?"

She chuckled softly. "Ever seen me dance?"

"Touche. Are you ready, Captain Spock?"

"I am."

"Then we're off." Metcalfe surveyed his officers—the crew of his short-lived first-and-only command. "Keep yourselves alive, people."

As he and Spock started for the door, Celia Faulkner said quietly, "Captain? Come back to us."

"Doctor, I'll do my damndest." But he knew the words were just mock bravery. Whatever happened next, he knew that returning to lead these people couldn't possibly be an option.


	21. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While McCoy, Chekov and Uhura stand their ground, Fournier launches a bombardment against the ancient city where Carol, Saavik and Preston hide.

Chapter Eighteen

A feeling of sick dread crept over Demora as the orange, contoured band which represented the _Phoenix_ 's shields on her tactical display began to vanish, a segment at a time. Fournier's words rang in her mind: "If they drop them—even for a moment, I want you to fire a continuous barrage."

Not wanting to draw the attention of the others to what was happening, she quietly motioned Harriman to her side. She wanted at least to give him the chance to put things right.

Harriman studied the display quietly, only for a moment. After all, if they were to fire, they would doubtless have only the smallest window of time. Looking away from the display, to Demora, he said tonelessly, "You have your orders, Ensign." Then he leaned in closer to her and asked if she wanted him to fire the phasers in her stead.

It was a tempting offer, to be absolved of responsibility, but she shook her head. "No, sir. I have my orders." As long as she was a Starfleet officer, she would have to follow orders, or make the regulations show why she didn't. No regulation forbade Fournier's actions thus far.

Demora, without further hesitation, keyed the sequence which loosed a phaser barrage on her father's old ship and its crew. As she did so, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She distanced herself from her emotions and was surprised at the ease with which they ceased to trouble her. She wondered, later, when she was alone with her conscience, how hard they would backlash against her.

On the main viewer, a series of quick, bright beams lanced out and struck the defenseless scout. As the first shot impacted, _Phoenix_ was already in motion, pivoting, turning her starboard and the critical junction that Fournier had targeted away from the blasts. A series of angry, black impact marks developed in a trail, leading from the fore of her starboard hull to her prow, where the majority of the barrage hit until _Phoenix_ 's shields were brought back up, and the phasers began to reflect harmlessly away.

Demora heard Captain Harriman behind her, his breath catching in a sudden hiss as he saw the damage. "Report," he said, with mild disgust.

Demora noted that the scout had sustained only minimal damage: a few structural wounds, decompression in three compartments—all apparently evacuated before the attack, no sign of casualties.

"They were ready," muttered Harriman with admiration. "They knew where we would hit them."

"Aye sir," said Demora, still studying her panel. "Sir, during the phaser barrage, _Phoenix_ was making heavy use of her transporter. I noted multiple beams, with objects of minimal mass materializing at extreme range, in all directions."

"Composition of objects?" asked Harriman.

The science officer reported. "Tritanium containment tanks, sir. Some traces of gaseous compounds from the engine coolant systems a scout class would use."

He nodded. "Raise _Phoenix_ 's commander."

A moment later, an image of _Phoenix_ 's bridge appeared on the screen. In the captain's chair, Demora recognized Aer'La. She'd met the Orion woman on several occasions. Although she was temperamental, and always in trouble, Demora's father thought very highly of her.

After Aer'La introduced herself, Harriman demanded, "Commander, where's Captain Metcalfe?"

"Injured, sir," said Aer'La. "He was evacuating casualties when you fired on us."

Harriman's tone was hard. "Perhaps then he's learned not to test our resolve. Commodore Fournier wasn't kidding about firing on you, as you now see. Drop your shields again, and—"

"We weren't testing anyone's resolve, Captain," Aer'La spat. "Our recent engine upgrade was experimental, as you know, and our engineering geniuses hadn't worked out all the wrinkles. We had a coolant breach, and Captain Metcalfe didn't want to take chances. We dropped shields to beam the canisters away from the ship."

Harriman's tone softened. "Commander... if you'd contacted us ahead—"

"If the Captain had called and asked for permission to drop his shields in the current situation, would you have agreed? And run the risk of his beaming a security force down to the surface?"

"Point taken, Commander." He hesitated. "Do you require medical assistance?"

"No, Captain. We've got everything under control. This ship can take quite a bit."

"I'm glad your crew wasn't harmed. Tell Captain Metcalfe to keep those shields up, and don't use transporters again, or we'll be forced to knock them out."

"Understood, _Enterprise_. _Phoenix_ out."

As the channel closed, Demora reminded herself that Commodore Fournier's orders, although meant to prevent _Phoenix_ beaming anyone to the surface, hadn't mentioned anything about monitoring transporter activity. Further, Captain Harriman had not asked for an accounting of the coordinates of each and every one of the multiple transporter signals.

So, she wasn't truly defying orders if she failed to mention that she'd caught one transporter beam aimed at the surface of Pellegrinos, only a matter of meters from the location where they'd recently sent the Commodore.

Decades ago, when Pellegrinos had first been designated an archaeological site of primary interest, the Starfleet Corps of Engineers had come and dug pathways and tunnels through millennia of desert sand and dust which had half buried the Kallistans' once-beautiful city. At what may have been the city gate, or may simply have been the entrance to a long-ago disintegrated building, they reinforced an archway and installed force-field projectors like those used in detention cells. Then they'd surrounded the city itself with field generators and blanketed it with a deflector shield to protect it from the elements. Only through the archway was there access to the ancient city now, and the shields had been left up when the planet was abandoned, in case the Klingons had an interest in its treasures.

There was no evidence that the city archaeologists had dubbed Kallistopolis had ever had walls to protect it from intruders. Indeed, the Kallistans weren't known, in their recent history, to have had any wars on the planet's surface.

Now, however, Kallistopolis was a walled city, an armed camp about to be invaded by soldiers of a civilization barely using tools when the Kallistans had vanished from galactic history. At the gate, McCoy, Saavik, Uhura and Chekov stood, phasers drawn, holding a quiet vigil. They knew that the force shield protecting the city was too week to protect them from any kind of real assault—say, from phaser rifles. They knew that Fournier had more troops at his command than they could hope to resist. They hoped to hold their own long enough for Carol, still inside the city with Preston, to slip quietly through the force shield once it fell. From there, she could make it back to the cloaked _Pandora_.

The telltale flash of a transporter beam several hundred meters away did not surprise them. Uhura's jamming field prevented _Enterprise_ from getting accurate enough sensor data to beam anyone into the city. It was wise to give it a wide berth, lest someone wind up materialized inside a wall.

Standing at the forefront of a group of armored security officers—ever expanding, as more transporter flashes yielded more officers, each armed with combat phaser rifles—was George Fournier. His voice, accustomed to addressing large numbers, easily carried across the distance between them.

"Dr. McCoy!"

McCoy glowered at him, saying nothing.

"Tell your friends to cooperate with me, Doctor," said Fournier. "And we'll beam you up peacefully. The only serious charges are against Commander Saavik."

There was a pause, then Fournier prompted: "What do you say, Doctor?"

McCoy looked briefly at the others, then stepped forward and called out. "I say go to hell!"

Even across the sands and hot, thin air, Fournier's anger was visible from his posture, audible in his tone. "We'll open fire, if you force us to!"

"What are you waiting for, then?" shouted McCoy. "Go ahead and fire! You're so anxious to start killing."

Beside him, as she checked her phaser and prepared for the assault, Saavik said quietly, "We cannot win this battle."

McCoy looked anxiously at the sky. "We won't have to, if I know my Vulcan ambassadors." To himself, he added, "What's keeping you, you green-blooded sonofabitch?"

A series of light shock waves, similar to earth tremors, and with the same effects, rocked the ruined buildings around Carol and Preston Marcus as they hurried toward the city's edge, toward a chance to escape to the hidden _Pandora_. The intensity of the ground-shaking was getting worse. Carol knew that meant the immense shield surrounding the city was weakening, and more of the force of the phaser impacts was getting through. Even though the beams themselves couldn't penetrate the shield as yet, the explosive force of their impact resonated through the ground itself, doing a considerable amount of damage.

Had she had time to think about it, she would have cursed whoever was firing on them for the irreparable harm they were causing to one of the galaxy's most precious historical resources. Surely even the most rigid Starfleet goon had to realize they were committing an atrocity. They were willing to pay a high price to get hold of Preston.

The strongest tremor yet caused Carol to lose her footing, and she went down hard, still holding Preston's hand. It occurred to her how lucky she was not to have hit her head, even as a dull ache began to throb in her side. She wondered if she had fractured ribs.

With a look of intense concern, Preston, who'd only fallen to his knees and skinned them on the dry sand, placed a hand on her shoulder. "You hurt?" he asked carefully.

She wanted to cry. He was learning so quickly and showing such genuine affection. He'd never make a Vulcan. She patted his hand. "I'm fine, sweetheart. Let's keep moving." With a grimace, she got to her feet. The pain in her side flared as the muscles stretched. Squeezing the small hand in hers, she started on down the dark, empty street.

Not far ahead, they saw the angry flash of a phaser blast. Carol could tell it was within the city perimeter. They'd breached the shield. Well, that was what they'd counted on. Only now the blasts wouldn't just shake the once-proud buildings of Kallistopolis, they would strike them broadside, disrupting their very molecular structures. Her builders had died long ago. Now Kallistopolis, their only monument, would soon join them.

Overhead, bridging the street several storeys up, what must once have been a pedestrian bridge took a glancing blow from a phaser blast. Although the lion's share of the blast's force was spent against a neighboring building, its effort against the bridge was not wasted. It rained debris in all directions, and crumbled. Chunks of varying sizes bombarded the street.

As the first small shards of whatever composite material had made up the bridge showered down on them, Carol encircled Preston with one arm, held him tightly to her uninjured side, and hurled herself toward the arch of a nearby door. Landing hard, but luckily mostly on her buttocks, she clutched the boy against her, hiding his face against her chest. It was a pitiful gesture, she knew. If one of the larger chunks were to fall on them, her arms would provide little protection to her grandson.

She looked desperately at the arch of the doorway above them, wondering how long it would hold out. Had she even done the right thing, hiding here? Jim, who'd been through many earthquakes and more battles on land, had always said a doorway was the safest place, at such times.

Preston struggled against her grip on his head. She shushed him and stroked his hair, telling him it was best not to look. When the wall across the street was pulverized and fell in, he cried out in fear at the sudden onslaught of noise. Carol held him tighter and began to rock gently.

"Don't worry, Preston," she whispered into his ear, kissing it. "Nana won't let them hurt you."

She surveyed the carnage just meters away. That it had been a street only minutes ago, a casual observer would not have been able to discern. She shook her head in disgust, and said absently to Preston, "Where's your granddaddy when I really need him?"

Metcalfe and Spock materialized in the concavity behind a sand dune, which blocked their view of Fournier's party, and the city beyond. They heard the sounds of multiple phaser blasts ahead, and the crash of falling debris in the distance.

"He's taking the place apart," said Metcalfe.

"Indeed," said the Vulcan.

They dropped to the sand and advanced at a slow crawl to the top of the dune. Armored Starfleet security officers were everywhere, each carrying a phaser rifle. As the two from _Phoenix_ watched, Fournier's small army surged forward, satisfied, apparently, that resistance from the city had been minimized. There was no sign of Saavik's group at the city's edge. Metcalfe decided they must have gone into hiding. Fournier's people could now be seen poking around inside the city itself—the tops of their heads and their shoulders (and their rifles) visible above the dunes which half-buried the old buildings.

"If Uhura's played her cards right," said Metcalfe, "they'll all be hidden from sensors by the same jamming field that blocked them from space."

"Commander Uhura is extremely efficient," said Spock. "They will have some hours, I would think, in which they will be able to remain hidden."

"And hopefully be able to get away."

Spock frowned. "It would seem doubtful."

Metcalfe started to ask why, then followed Spock's gaze to where Fournier stood next to a gleaming, black casing, floating a meter off the ground, suspended by an anti-grav unit.

"A torpedo," said Metcalfe. "It could wipe out everyone and everything in the area."

"And," said Spock evenly, "the Commodore is arming it. Apparently, he has decided not to run the risk of their escaping."

As Fournier keyed in the security combination which would engage the detonation sequence, Metcalfe threw himself forward, phaser in hand, and tore down the side of the dune. Spock followed, his phaser likewise ready.

Fournier looked up and smiled pleasantly as they stopped a few meters from him, their phasers trained on him.

"Hello, gentlemen," he said in his best politician's voice. "I'm afraid your arrival is a bit ill-timed."

Spock ignored him, looking at the control panel on the torpedo. "The timer is set for 900 seconds," he said to Metcalfe. Then he said, for Fournier's benefit, "The resultant detonation will atomize all life in the immediate area."

"That's his plan," said Metcalfe, "to wipe out all trace of us—especially Preston, so the Federation will never know Starfleet has become a bunch of paranoid child-killers."

Spock raised his phaser just slightly, levelling it at Fournier's head. "I must ask you to step away, sir."

Fournier merely smiled. "You won't shoot me—it would be revenge, and thus not logical." He quickly stabbed the last key, and the counter began to tick off the seconds.

Metcalfe started to advance. "You son of a bitch!" he spat.

Spock grabbed his shoulder, holding him. "If you injure him, he may not be able to give us the security code to stop the countdown."

Fournier smirked. "I'm afraid you won't get it in any case, Captain Spock. This is necessary."

"The murder of an innocent child—and the entire team that came to save him?" demanded Metcalfe.

"Captain Metcalfe, as a highly trained operative, you know that sacrifices must be made. Just as your Vulcan mentor knows that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. I have no wish to kill innocent people, but better kill a handful than let Kirk's lover perfect her doomsday weapon."

"Dr. Marcus is not trying to perfect the Genesis process," said Spock evenly. "She is trying to recondition her grandson's DNA, so that he will be able to survive."

"The child was born of the Genesis process! He wouldn't exist without it! Within him are the secrets of the Genesis matrices. If the Romulans were to get hold of him, study him, they could re-create Genesis themselves. I assure you, they would be less merciful to the boy than this torpedo blast will be."

"And I suppose Starfleet is being merciful?" demanded Metcalfe.

"We're doing what is necessary for the safety of the Federation. In case you've forgotten, Captain, that is our job—not the deification of James Kirk."

"Yeah, I'll bet you've got the noblest motives—not to mention an emergency beamup signal at the ready to haul your ass out when that thing blows."

Fournier shrugged. "It wouldn't do to waste resources."

Spock, continuing to hold his phaser on Fournier, said to Metcalfe, "Gather the others, Captain. I'll deal with the Commodore."

Had the timer not been running, he might have argued, but he had very little time to get his friends out alive, if it was possible. If it was not...

He reached out with his mind, calling Saavik across the bond. //At least it wasn't boring, my love. I'll see you soon, in one reality or another.//

He was surprised at the ease with which he'd dispensed with the security team. Fournier had not really briefed them on who they were up against. He didn't believe in distributing information too freely—knowledge being power—so they didn't know that the Starfleet Captain who charged into their midst was from "the other side." He'd come from Fournier's location. Perhaps they assumed he was from an assisting ship.

It was a calculated risk. Had it failed, Metcalfe would have found himself in a very short phaser battled with a few score of the _Enterprise_ 's finest. The gamble had paid off, however. Hearing a Captain—any Captain—tell them "Commodore Fournier's detonating the torpedo! Clear the area and beam out!" had started them moving. They moved en masse outside the city—and the range of Uhura's jamming field—and began to beam up to the _Enterprise_. Metcalfe did not stay to watch. He had less than fifteen minutes left.

"Metcalfe!"

The voice—McCoy's—rang out across the rubble of Kallistopolis, and Metcalfe spun to see the Doctor, Chekov and Uhura, emerging from the foundations of a partially intact building. He charged toward them.

"Where's Saavik?"

"She went into the city," said Uhura, "looking for Carol and Preston. They were going to try to make the ship."

"We haven't heard from them," added McCoy.

Fear welled up in him, but Metcalfe touched the bond. Saavik's presence was still with him. "Get to the ship," he said to the others.

"The guards—!" Chekov began.

"They're gone. Fournier set off a photon torpedo on time delay. We've got about ten minutes."

"We'll help you," said Uhura.

"No!" barked Metcalfe. "My bond with Saavik is the only way to find them now. If we don't make it, someone's got to get back alive and tell the Federation."

They all nodded soberly.

"Spock is with Fournier at ground zero," said Metcalfe. "I'll bring the others there if I find them. Be ready to pull us out!"

He took off, running, into the doomed city.

Saavik ran through the ruined streets. She had tender spots covering her body. She'd fallen as the ground shook and jumped to avoid falling debris. She brought a hand up to brush wild strands of hair from her eyes and brought it away with a smear of green on the palm. A head wound. She hoped she wasn't going into a concussion. She needed a clear head to find Preston.

He was still alive. That much she knew. His weak, psychic presence sparkled in her mind. It was like chasing a firefly, looking for its pale light after it had landed amidst the grass and its glow was obscured. It occurred to her as she ran that she'd never seen a firefly, much less chased one.

_Terry._

He was close now, so close that his thoughts were mixing with her own. They were all in grave danger. In minutes, unless they escaped, they would all die. His mind cried out that warning and sought desperately for hers.

And he would find her. That was certain. As he neared her, her psychic presence in his mind would grow stronger, telling him which way to turn, how far to go. Every second he spent looking for her brought him closer to her, and farther from safety.

She wanted to tell him to turn back, that one of them risking her life to find Preston and Carol was enough. His presence in the city would not help her find her son any faster, and she didn't want him to die needlessly. In fact, more so than her own death, she feared the idea of his. //Go!// Her mind screamed. //I will come to you if I can.//

But his presence moved closer, seeking, desperate, loving. How could one leave one's bondmate? If she were to die, his place was at her side. Not even Vulcan logic could stifle that basic instinct of all sentient life—the drive to give one's all to protect one's family.

As long as she was in his mind, he would keep coming. He would know she was still alive. Only if he believed her dead might he leave the city and save himself. Even then, he might give his life in a vain search for her remains.

Still, it was a chance, a better one, than he would have otherwise. There was only one action to be taken. Drawing on every reserve of strength she possessed, Saavik took it, ripping herself out of his mind, racking both of their very beings with unspeakable pain. She felt his cry of mental anguish...

...then nothing.

It was like a game of "hot potato/cold potato," Metcalfe thought. As he neared Saavik, her presence in his mind became more vivid. If he stepped in the wrong direction, it faded. At this rate, he would find her soon. He would have preferred coordinates and a tactical display, but this would do.

Then his heart skipped a beat. At first, it was that feeling of knowing you've dropped something—your wedding ring fell off your finger, your money out of your pocket. Then there was pain, worse by far than the agony of the false pon far. It drove him to his knees. His shriek of agony echoed through the old city.

Saavik was gone.

As the tongue keeps returning to the space where a tooth has been removed, Metcalfe's mind probed frantically for that bit of Saavik that was always with him. It was nowhere to be found. His adrenaline rushed, his heart beat frantically, and he rose to his feet and ran.

Where to go? He had no guidance now. He tried to suppress the knowledge that not even deep coma or unconsciousness could totally suppress the bond, only death. He refused to believe it. Something else must have happened. He screamed her name in all directions, listening intently for an answer. When there was none, he ran another few meters and repeated his summons.

Finally, from not far off, came a weak, answering cry.

"Saavik?" he called.

The sound came again. He ran toward it. "Keep talking!" he exhorted. Soon he found that the muffled voice was coming from within the remnants of a building's facade. The doorway was nearly covered by rubble. Someone was inside.

"Stand back as far as you can!" he called out and used his phaser to carefully blast away the bulk of the obstruction. When it appeared possible for him to finish the clearing by hand, he put the phaser on his belt and scrambled atop the pile, hurling debris right and left.

As he produced an ever-larger opening, he saw hands within, assisting him in clearing the way. Carol Marcus's face soon appeared, bloody and filthy, but relieved.

"Help me lift Preston out," she said.

Metcalfe reached in and took hold of the boy, who was certainly too weak to climb the rock pile. He hefted Preston out by his shoulders and lowered him to the street. Then he took Carol's arm and helped her out of the crevasse which had once been a doorway.

As they brushed themselves off, he asked, "Where's Saavik?"

Carol shook her head, still gasping for fresh air. Metcalfe looked at Preston, terrified, clinging to his grandmother's leg.

"We've got to get him out of here," he said. "The whole place is about to be vaporized." He considered, momentarily, their ability to make the ship alone. He could tell by the way Carol held her arms that she was injured badly. Carrying any weight was out of the question. Preston certainly couldn't run—or walk—to the _Pandora_.

He scooped the boy decisively into his arms, shouted to Carol to follow, and ran in the direction he hoped would take them to _Pandora_. He must have been right, for Carol did not protest their course. Preston huddled against his shoulder, quiet, but obviously drained and afraid. The heat of the boy's body reminded him of the heat of Saavik's, and he fought against his own anguish that she might be lost to him. He had to keep moving, to keep this piece of her that nestled against him alive.

When they reached the perimeter of the city, Carol pointed toward a rock outcropping ahead. Shadowed beneath it lay the _Pandora_ , rising above the desert sands on her anti-gravs. Uhura waited in the hatch, beckoning to them. Renewed, they surged forward, but a stab of pain hit Metcalfe, forcing him to stop, almost knocking him down.

Carol looked at him, startled.

"Saavik," he whispered. She was alive. Their bond was still intact. No doubt she'd attempted to sever or obscure it to protect him, but now it was back. She was in terrible pain.

He set Preston on his feet and said to Carol. "Get him to the ship!"

Carol started to protest, to take him by the arm, but he waved her off. "She's alive—I've got to find her!" As he moved away, he called out, "We'll be at ground zero if we make it. Tell Chekov!"

He ran towards the city, the pain intensifying as he did so. It was nearly crippling and getting worse. He wondered if he would be able to continue as it increased, all the while welcoming it, and thanking every god his people ever worshipped for its stabbing, searing presence.

He was on his hands and knees, gasping, when he finally got to her. A support beam of some Kallistan metal pinned her legs. She was fading in and out of consciousness, which explained why she couldn't continue suppressing their psychic link.

They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Their joy at being reunited and their anguish at their slim hope for survival carried themselves through the bond. Their anger at each other—his for her trying to hide, hers for his not letting her—and their overwhelming feelings of love for the selfsame acts—were there as well.

Their combined strength and his better position for leverage allowed them to move the beam. With his assistance, she could walk. Their arms about one another, they ran for Spock, and their last chance for life... or their final stop.


	22. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can warp drive outrun death?

Chapter Nineteen

In all the time he'd known Spock, as an instructor at the Academy, as Captain of the _Enterprise_ , Metcalfe had never seen him display any emotion beyond the occasional trace of humor: pride in his students. The barest of smiles. He'd never shown impatience, even to the most obtuse junior officer. He'd certainly never come close to real anger.

Now, on the desert sands of Pellegrinos, the veins in his face protruding, his teeth bared in a warrior's sneer, George Fournier's body, gripped by the collar, dangling in front of him, Spock was well and truly furious. It was a sight Metcalfe never wanted to see again, if he lived two centuries beyond that moment. It had been said for centuries on earth that hell had no fury like a woman scorned. Whoever had said that had never seen a Vulcan's emotional control snap.

Saavik's face was blank as she observed, but her shock radiated through their bond. She hadn't moved since they'd arrived and found Spock and Fournier locked in a battle of wills. Nor did she attempt to act when her mentor raised his hand to the _katra_ points on Fournier's face, initiating a forced mind meld. Metcalfe knew that this was an action any civilized Vulcan deplored.

The only thing he could read through their bond was that she didn't understand Spock's actions, and she was too shaken to try. She was going to let him play out this hand, whatever the result.

Spock shifted his grip, applying pressure in different areas, causing Fournier to cry out from the pain. Neither of them said a word, and Spock finally pulled his hand back.

"You don't know the deactivation code!" he hissed.

Despite his weakened state, Fournier's sweating face broke into a smug grin. "I set it for random selection. I didn't want it stopped," he croaked.

"Then," said Spock with quiet menace, tightening his grip on Fournier's throat, "you will signal a general beam up, or I will break your neck." He enunciated each of the last words carefully, chillingly, making certain they would be neither misinterpreted, nor doubted.

Fournier just laughed—laughed like a mad man, or an idiot. Metcalfe was now firmly convinced he was both.

As Spock's hands began to close over the hysterical Commodore's face, in the fatal grip of _tal shaya_ , Saavik's stupor finally broke. She shrieked out, "Spock, No!"

Spock whirled, startled, as if he hadn't even seen them standing there. He looked for a moment at Saavik, his eyes unfocused, then he looked at the glowing digits on the torpedo's control panel as they moved backward from five seconds toward zero.

"It's too late," Spock said quietly.

Metcalfe, not taking his eyes from the counter, groped for Saavik's hand before the blast overtook them. His fingers brushed hers and began to close over them—

— the counter clicked to zero—

— and he grasped Saavik's hand firmly, pulling her to him, registering slowly that he had lived to complete the gesture well past the time of detonation. Another second brought him the realization that he, Saavik and Spock were standing on the tiny platform of _Pandora_ 's transporter unit. Then they were all thrown to the deck as the fighter craft banked and made for escape from the planet's atmosphere, the torpedo detonating in her wake.

The ship quickly levelled off, her artificial gravity systems compensating for acceleration, and the three almost-corpses were able to stand and brush themselves off.

Uhura turned in the copilot's seat, her smile gleaming. "Sorry for close timing. I'm afraid I could only take three of you."

Spock moved forward, behind Chekov in the pilot's seat. The savagery that had possessed him had vanished. "Your timing is impeccable, Ms. Uhura. Are we—"

"We're ready to break from orbit any time," Chekov reported. "Cloaking device engaged. They won't have a clue we're here until we go to warp, at which point we can't afford the power to cloak."

"That will suffice," said Spock.

"Saavik," said Carol gently from her seat, where she was strapped in next to Preston.

Metcalfe and Saavik turned. The boy was strapped limply in place. His face was deathly pale, his eyes were shut. He might have been asleep, but Metcalfe could tell from the fear that Saavik was transmitting that he was not.

"He's been like this for the last few minutes. He won't respond," said Carol. Her voice broke.

McCoy reached out and gently touched Saavik's hand as she knelt beside her son. She didn't even flinch at the contact, noticing only Preston.

"I'm sorry, Saavik," said McCoy gently. "His system is just destabilizing too rapidly. We think we have what we need, but..."

McCoy stopped, and Metcalfe knew what he wasn't saying: _Preston's not going to live that long._

Spock, too, looked thoughtfully at the boy's lifeless form, the faintest trace of pain passing across his face before decision took its place. "Mr. Chekov, Ms. Uhura, I believe the time has come for a parting of the ways. Stand by to transport back to the _Phoenix_."

Chekov bolted from his seat, his face alive with indignation. "Mr. Spock!"

Uhura waved her hand dismissively at the Vulcan. "Forget it! We're in this to the end!"

"Your display of loyalty, however emotional, is appreciated," Spock said. "Nonetheless, you can be of far greater service to us aboard _Phoenix_. I'm sure they'll be able to drop their shields without incident for the next few minutes, while _Enterprise_ focuses on finding this ship. If he has survived, the Commodore will come in pursuit. If _Enterprise_ detects a transporter beam to _Phoenix_ —"

"They won't know who's gone where!" finished Chekov.

Uhura nodded agreement. "Or which ship to follow. But shouldn't we put Preston on the faster ship? The _Phoenix_ can outrun the _Enterprise_."

"That is what the Commodore will be expecting. Further... I wish to place as few lives in danger as possible." True to his usual character, his voice did not change as he added, "What I intend to do next may kill all of us."

"You're going there aren't you?" asked Chekov quietly. "To the Nexus."

"Yes."

McCoy, the anger he usually fired so liberally in Spock's direction gone from his voice, said, "Preston's in a coma, Spock. Carol and I retrieved the data, but there's no time—"

"Where we are going, Doctor, time will not be an issue."

"I don't understand," said Uhura.

"If we succeed, all will be made clear. If we do not succeed, we will all be dead. You must go now. Captain Metcalfe, please take the controls and set course for the Nexus, best possible speed."

Uhura gently clasped Spock's arm, her lips moving tentatively for a moment before she spoke. "I don't know what to say, Spock, I—"

McCoy draped an arm around her shoulders and Chekov's, perhaps providing the comfort to them Spock could not. "Uhura—tell Joanna I—"

She nodded. His meaning was plain, even if the right words didn't come on such short notice. "I know, Len. Spock?"

"Yes, of course. If we do not return, please carry our explanations to Vulcan. My family will understand."

Uhura and Chekov stepped onto the small transporter while Metcalfe signalled _Phoenix_ to drop her shields. Within moments, they were gone. Wasting no time, Spock gestured for Saavik to take the co-pilot's seat. She looked for one anguished moment at Preston; but there was nothing she could do, except get him away from here quickly.

Taking only a moment to familiarize herself with the equipment, Saavik said quietly, "Intercept course for energy ribbon plotted."

"Laid in," said Metcalfe, "We're on our way." He gently reached out and squeezed her hand, trying to smile. Her mind, however, responded to his with a question quite fanciful for a Vulcan.

//Even with warp drive, can we outrun death?//

The _Enterprise_ main screen showed a closeup view—closeup from orbit, at any rate—of the detonation of Kallistopolis. Demora focused on regulating her breathing. Already she was shaping the phrases she would use to tell her father that his oldest, dearest friends were dead. Behind her. in words that blurred together in the background of her mind, the science officer recited a litany of facts about the destruction of the ancient city. Fournier had levelled it. Not a building was left standing to mark his grave.

They'd had no word from the Commodore before the blast, nor any from the transporter room. Demora was quite certain Fournier was dead as well. The certainty brought little sorrow against the loss of Spock, McCoy and the others.

Her heart sank just slightly as the lift doors opened and the Commodore strode onto the bridge. She felt a little guilty that his survival disappointed her. But only a little.

"Commodore!" Harriman stammered. "We thought—"

"It was close, Captain," Fournier said quickly. "But it's not over yet—on either side."

Demora spun in her chair. "The others got away?" she asked excitedly.

Fournier's expression was cold, and behind it, there was rage. "Yes, Ensign. I'm glad you're so relieved. Unfortunately it also means they've managed to get away with a very dangerous weapon. I suggest you begin scanning for signs of their ship. It has a cloaking device, but look for a plasma trail."

Demora's face burned. How could this man, who was credited with making Starfleet "friendly" to the public and winning support for them with the Federation, how could he be so cold to the feelings that she had for Kirk's officers?

Her anger vanished in the next instant, as her sensors showed _Pandora_ breaking orbit. She must have dropped her cloak suddenly, for she appeared from nowhere. "Commodore! I have them!"

He was at her shoulder immediately. "They're not cloaked?"

"They've dropped the cloak," she said tentatively, continuing her scan. "They've engaged transporters. They just beamed personnel to _Phoenix_."

" _Phoenix_ was running with shields up," said Fournier. "How—"

She was as surprised as he. " _Phoenix_ 's shields are down, sir."

Fournier's face was crimson. "Dammit, I told you to monitor for shield droppage and fire immediately! Are you incapable—"

"Commodore!" Harriman's voice shot out from behind them. Demora and Fournier turned. The Captain's face was hard, his anger barely contained. "Ensign Sulu was very busy scanning the surface during and after the detonation." He brought his nose only inches from his superior's. "She was trying to save lives, if possible... including yours."

Fournier chewed his lip, then turned back to Demora. "How many?"

"Sir?"

"How many people did _Pandora_ send over?"

"Indeterminate, sir. They must have deliberately dispersed the broadcast at the extreme frequencies. That obscures our ability—"

"—to detect the signal reliably," Fournier finished. "They did teach basic transporter function at the Academy even before the earth cooled, Ensign."

"Aye, sir."

Having made Demora feel a few centimeters tall, he began to pace behind her console. "So, Spock has divided his forces."

" _Phoenix_ is moving away, sir," Demora reported. "Heading zero four eight. _Pandora_ also on the move—heading eight six five."

Fournier grimaced. "Giving us a choice—daring us to pick which one has what we want."

"And your pick, sir?" asked the Captain.

"I want both of them, but Spock would put his people on the fastest ship. That's only logical. Follow the _Phoenix_. Call for backup. Have the _Pandora_ intercepted. Wherever they think they're going, they can't run from the whole of Starfleet."


	23. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock looked serenely out the viewport. "I have come to the conclusion that the word 'impossible' describes only that set of actions which this crew has not attempted."

Chapter Twenty

"There she is," said Janice Rand quietly. The image of the _Pandora_ , growing with each passing second, came onto _Excelsior_ 's main viewer.

Spock had been right. He'd predicted all along that _Excelsior_ , _Enterprise_ 's sister, and the only other vessel of her class in the now-downsized Starfleet, would be ordered to intercept _Pandora_. The signal from Captain Harriman had come right on schedule.

Sulu thought Kirk's successor had looked worn, boxed-in. Of course, he knew Fournier was on _Enterprise_. And he knew how angry Fournier must be just about now. It probably didn't help the Commodore's blood pressure any that the ship coming to his aid was Sulu's. After all, Sulu was one of Kirk's people—not to be trusted. If all went according to Spock's plan, today would prove trustworthiness, to Starfleet, if not to George Fournier.

He turned to Janice Rand and smiled. "Time to put on a show."

She smiled back grimly. "I hope you're as good an actor as you are a fencer."

"Acting is my passion."

"On the list of your passions, does it come before or after botany? How about collecting firearms? Or Rigellian wines?"

"I only keep track of the passions that come ahead of pretty blondes," he whispered. "Which is a short list."

She raised an eyebrow in perfect approximation of Spock. "Really, Captain. Your comment ill befits the dignity of the ship's bridge."

He grinned as she walked back to her station.

Ensign Tuvok was manning the sensors in Saavik's absence. He called out sharply, "Captain, I'm picking up a gravimetric disturbance to port. The _Pandora_ is on an intercept heading—"

Sulu nodded. "As expected, Mr. Tuvok. They're heading for the energy ribbon." He surveyed his bridge officers before announcing with mild irony, "Our job is to keep them away from it. Helm, put us in her path."

"Sir," said the young Vulcan pointedly, "the _Pandora_ has superior maneuverability. We cannot hope to act as a blockade. It would be most logical to disable the vessel."

Ensign Buker, newly assigned as weapons officer and prone to be trigger happy, turned to Sulu. "Shall I target phasers, Captain?"

There was an eager glint in the young man's eye, and Sulu noted a distinctively angry glare coming Buker's way from Janice Rand. It was an expression of supreme disapproval from the First Officer which junior officers had dubbed "The Look." It intimidated the cockiest of them. Sulu often wondered if they knew how many times their Captain had been its target.

He shook his head. "No, Mr. Buker, I think we'd best take the moral high ground. I don't want it said that _Excelsior_ fires on her own—even if they have turned renegade." He stood, and, very deliberately, clapped his helmsman on the shoulder. "I'll take over, Lieutenant," he said gently.

The young woman—her name was Scalese—looked up, confusion briefly lighting on her face. The Captain taking the helm was unusual. But she quickly moved, and Sulu sat. As his hands spread over the board he could, even now, have worked in his sleep, he said to her, "No offense, Lieutenant. This is going to call for a few tricks I don't think they teach at the Academy."

He pulled up a tactical display. As he brought _Excelsior_ 's bulk around in a rapid arc which would have made her designers cry out in pain, the cartoonish image of _Pandora_ increased speed, driving hard and fast toward the energy ribbon. Her pilot was no doubt wondering about _Excelsior_ 's sudden, unorthodox actions. Or maybe he wasn't surprised at all. They knew each other's styles, after all...

"Well, old friend," Sulu said under his breath, "maybe this time we'll establish once and for all who the better helmsman is."

Of course, the most important thing was that nothing really _happen_ until _Enterprise_ could get here.

"Sonofabitch," Metcalfe muttered as _Excelsior_ banked and whirled—something a starship of her size rarely did. The big ship matched his every turn, as if parrying the thrust of a rapier. "Hikaru's flying that ship!"

"How do you know?" asked Saavik.

"No one else can handle a ship that way. I don't know if I can get past him."

"You must not," said Spock.

McCoy, seated beside the elder Vulcan, raised an eyebrow. "Come again, Spock?"

"Captain Sulu is following my orders. Whatever our fate, _Excelsior_ must remain blameless. Commodore Fournier must have no shred of evidence that Captain Sulu complied us. Captain Metcalfe, timing is critical. You must follow my instructions to the letter if we are to make the Nexus."

"You want me to try and outrun the best helmsman in the fleet, but not take any openings if they're there, and make it look like he's not trying to let me in when he does?"

"The word is impossible, Captain," said McCoy. "I often use it in relation to Spock."

Spock looked serenely out the viewport. "I have come to the conclusion that the word 'impossible' describes only that set of actions which this crew has not attempted."

On _Enterprise_ , Fournier was getting angrier by the minute. _Phoenix_ 's course made no sense. It led nowhere. He was beginning to realize he'd followed the wrong ship when the hail came in from _Phoenix_ 's commander. To Fournier's dismay, Harriman accepted the call without consulting him.

Pavel Chekov appeared on the main viewer. He smiled with relief. "Thank you for responding, Captain. We've had a pretty rough time over here."

"I'm afraid I don't—" Harriman began.

Fournier stepped forward. "Commander, you'll learn what a rough time is if you don't stand to and prepare to be boarded."

"Commodore," said Chekov amiably, as if he couldn't be happier to see Fournier "I know what you must be thinking. You see, we've just regained control of the ship."

Fournier shook his head. "Pull the other one, Commander."

The Orion First Officer appeared. "Commander Chekov is telling the truth, sir. Captain Metcalfe left a time-delay program in the main computer. When it executed, our navigation controls just... locked up. The ship was piloting itself."

"And I suppose communications was out, too."

"Well sir," said Chekov politely, "if Captain Metcalfe hadn't disabled communications, you wouldn't have followed us, would you? And we wouldn't have made very good decoys."

"That's true, sir," said Harriman drily.

Fournier ignored him. "Commander Chekov, why should I believe you? You were part of the team on Pellegrinos. You faced my people down at gunpoint."

"We had no choice, sir. You were firing on us."

"So you deny sympathizing with Saavik's cause?" asked Fournier.

Chekov hesitated. "No, sir. I understand their actions. I think they're doing the right thing."

"Commander, those are the first honest words I think you've spoken."

"I understand your skepticism, sir. But I maintain that neither myself, nor Commander Uhura, nor the crew of the _Phoenix_ , have violated any Starfleet regulation."

"I assure you, Commander, that a court martial will determine that point. In the meantime, since I have no desire to subject any of the _Enterprise_ crew to your tender mercies, _Phoenix_ will accompany us to rendez-vous with _Excelsior_ , which should have intercepted your friends by now. You will pace us. Be advised that _Enterprise_ 's shields will be on full power, and all weapons will be trained on you."

"Understood," said Chekov.

Fournier looked at Harriman. "No further communications, Captain. Best speed to the rendez-vous."

"Spock," Metcalfe said quietly, inclining his chin toward the tactical display. Spock was next to him in the co-pilot's seat. Saavik sat with Carol and Preston. The boy had begun having convulsions, and McCoy and Carol couldn't restrain him alone. Metcalfe tried to ignore the scene behind him, even though Saavik's fear and grief washed over him through their bond.

//He can't die now,// Metcalfe assured her. //We're so close!//

But he knew Preston could die at any time. Fate had no respect for mortal concepts of good and bad timing. Saavik knew it too, for he could hide none of his thoughts from her. So he focused on not having any.

On tactical, two indistinct blips moved toward _Pandora_.

" _Enterprise_ ," said Spock.

"And _Phoenix_. Just as you predicted."

"It is time for the final phase of the plan," Spock said. His fingers played delicately over the board in front of him, keying in a sequence which superimposed a targeting frame onto the tactical display. The luminescent green box closed in around the _Excelsior_ 's port nacelle.

Metcalfe looked up sharply. "You're targeting his engines?"

Spock nodded, and said quietly, "Phasers at maximum intensity. Fire."

Metcalfe started to object, but Spock had said timing was critical. With a grimace, he reached out and grasped the firing trigger.

"We will have only an instant in which Sulu would normally be distracted enough to let us pass. You must strike immediately."

Metcalfe nodded, squeezed the trigger gently. He didn't wait to see the lance of fiery red lash out at _Excelsior_. He knew it had. He also knew that Sulu would be running with shields up, and the blast would do little more than lower his shield intensity a few notches. He brought the _Pandora_ about hard, arcing, not away from _Excelsior_ , but toward her. That wasn't a move a captain would normally expect, and so it would take a few moments to train weapons on a ship directly underneath him.

Metcalfe threw the warp engines into one burst of maximum power—more than they were rated to withstand. Hell, he was piloting them into a gravitational anomaly which would burn out their shields and crumple their hull in less than a minute. What was an engine overload?

The sparkling fire of the energy ribbon closed around them, illuminating the cabin though all non-essential power had gone when he made that final dash, and they had no lights, no life support. The metal of the ship's hull groaned as the gravimetric forces from all sides pushed in on it

"Shield failure in seven point two seconds," reported Spock.

Not that they would notice. When the shields went, the hull would flatten, and _Pandora_ and her contents would be suddenly the size and shape of a grapefruit. The ship was shaking, the moaning of the over-taxed hull pitiful, like a wailing dog. Some piece of unsecured flotsam shot passed Metcalfe's head, clipping his ear. He never knew what it was.

Carol screamed.

Then everything was dark.


	24. Chapter Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not ready to become Robin Hood," Sulu said carefully.

Chapter Twenty-One

Fournier looked at the main viewer and shook his head in disgust. Young Demora Sulu, tears in her eyes, reported that the _Pandora_ was gone, shattered by the energy ribbon spread out before them. _Enterprise_ had been too far away to fire on them, and _Excelsior_ had stumbled over her own jawbone when _Pandora_ had fired on her. As if Sulu would have stopped them anyway, thought Fournier ruefully.

He turned to Harriman. "What the hell is that thing?"

Harriman looked taken aback. "You surely saw the reports, Commodore. It was all over the news. That's the anomaly we encountered the day we launched. The one where we lost..."

He broke off. Fournier finished the thought for him. "Kirk," he hissed.

Harriman nodded.

Harriman's surprise was understandable. He couldn't have known that Fournier had done his best to avoid the media coverage of Kirk's death. Contrary to what Morrow might believe, he didn't have murderous intentions toward the man, but he had considered him a loose cannon. As long as Kirk was there, making a show for his supporters, being propped up by those media flakes who still thought his "no-nonsense direct approach" had built the Federation, the Federation and Starfleet couldn't become the examples of efficient governing force that Fournier knew they should be.

So, when Kirk had been lost to explosive decompression, Fournier had waited for the shouting to die down, then gone about his business with a greater confidence. Those who had made a religion of distrusting Starfleet had lost their symbol. Of course, now it appeared their symbol had survived somewhere...

"That's where he is," Fournier said with sudden force. He chuckled at the image on the screen.

"Sir?" asked Harriman.

There was no sense explaining, for his sudden realization made no sense. It had to be the answer, though. James T. Kirk was in there—wherever that energy ribbon led. And, if Kirk could survive it, so could the child... and Genesis. This had to be finished.

"Never mind," he said to the Captain's quizzical expression. "Prepare a shuttle."

"A shuttle? For what?"

"I'm going in there."

Harriman's jaw dropped. "You'll be killed."

"I don't think so. Do it!"

He stalked to the turbo lift. Once and for all, he was going to end this.

"He's doing what?" Hikaru Sulu demanded.

On the main viewer, Harriman nodded. Desperation, resignation and exhaustion mixed on his face. "He thinks they're alive in there. He's going in."

Sulu looked to Janice. "Can we get a tractor beam on him?"

"Hikaru," said Harriman quietly. He lowered his voice and leaned in toward the screen. "The Commodore's last orders were that we not interfere."

"The Commodore's unstable, John," said Sulu.

"Tell me something I don't know. We may both be court martialed for letting him kill himself. He'd have us court martialled if we kept him here. I'm going to be blunt, Hikaru. Which charge do you think will be easier to defend against—insubordination, or reckless endangerment?"

John Harriman was a politician. He wasn't a bad man, thought Sulu, but he was a politician. He always thought of career implications first. Sulu was used to acting for the best, and Starfleet politics be damned. That's what Jim Kirk would have done. And what would he have done here? Fournier would probably survive. Metcalfe and Saavik had come back. Spock's whole plan revolved, apparently, around getting Preston into that anomaly.

And what was in there? If Jim Kirk had been lost in there, and people really could survive... He put the thought out of his mind. Suffice it to say, Fournier was not in danger... yet.

"Okay," Sulu said. "We let him go. The El Aurians that you rescued claimed they survived in there."

"And a lot of patients under anesthesia claim to have met the creator while they were out." Harriman sighed. "But we'll let him go. I promise I'll back you up, Hikaru."

Sulu smiled. "Noted and logged."

"Sir," said Tuvok, calling Sulu's attention to the external sensors. Fournier's shuttle was entering the ribbon. Its shields were not as powerful as _Pandora_ 's. She didn't last more than thirty seconds.

"Shuttle destroyed, sir," Tuvok said evenly.

Sulu looked to Harriman, still on the main viewer. His fellow Captain looked uncomfortable. "We should wait here—at least forty-eight hours," said Sulu.

"Agreed."

"But we don't both need to wait," said Sulu. "Maybe you should go on with your mission. We do have other duties, after all..." And, Sulu knew, it would put some distance between Harriman and the nasty political ramifications of this whole messy issue. He wouldn't hate that idea.

That shared realization was evident in the gratitude on Harriman's face. "Thanks, Hikaru. I owe you one."

"Sure. Now, could I tie up this channel for a few moments' unauthorized personal communication?" He nodded toward the console beyond Harriman's shoulder, where Demora sat.

Harriman smiled and stepped out of the picture, leaving Demora's image on the screen. Her eyes met Sulu's with that same questioning look they had ten years ago, when he'd told her her cat was dying. Now she looked to him for similar reassurance. Isn't there some chance? her eyes asked.

At least, this time, he couldn't be certain there wasn't.

"Hi, honey."

She tried to smile. "Dad... Spock and Dr. McCoy were on that ship. And Terry and Saavik."

"I know."

"The El Aurians believed..." she began.

"So do I," he said quietly. He couldn't tell her what he knew, could never tell anyone that two of his officers had gone in there and come back alive. Hopefully, his certainty would put her mind at ease. "Everything's going to be fine, 'Mora. I promise."

She nodded acceptance of his faith, and this time she did manage to smile.

_Phoenix_ remained with _Excelsior_ , Harriman agreeing that Sulu, who knew _Phoenix_ best, was the best candidate to see her home. Sulu summoned Chekov and Uhura aboard _Excelsior_ for a de-briefing. In case Spock didn't come back, it would be up to him to salvage what he could of the survivors' careers, and he wanted the full story of what happened on Pellegrinos. Even if Fournier never returned from the Nexus, Harriman's log would be enough for Starfleet to demand a formal inquiry.

Careers were bound to end. No doubt Spock intended to control which careers. He would also be ready to assist those people in moving on with their lives. Sulu hoped, if it wound up falling on his shoulders to take care of his friends, that he could do justice to Spock's trust in him.

They were in the briefing room, Chekov, Sulu and Uhura. Much as he'd hated to leave both Janice and Aer'La out of the mix, Sulu thought it best that they be distanced from this matter.

After they'd exchanged niceties, Chekov asked him gravely, "Do you think Spock and the others will be back?"

"I want to believe they will be, Pavel, but... " He didn't know what to say. His nagging fear that their friends had died when their ship broke up wouldn't help the others any. He left it unvoiced. "Let's run down the facts, as outsiders will hear them in the days to come:

He began ticking on his fingers. " One—an Intelligence Operative became mentally unstable while on assignment on Vulcan. That operative, we learn, was mind-melded to Lt. Commander Saavik.

"Two—Saavik had a child nine years ago, and the Vulcan government officially lied about its existence to the Federation.

"Three—Saavik took Starfleet property without authorization and went into Klingon space. The Vulcan government begged our tolerance.

"Four—Starfleet discovers that Saavik's son is a Genesis baby; and the only way to save him is to perfect Genesis, a project that almost started an interstellar war a decade ago. Saavik is now classed as a terrorist. So is Dr. McCoy, unless we can prove him blameless.

"Finally—five—Spock, the child's father, is a representative of the government which has withheld vital information and sanctioned terrorist activities. He flies into an energy ribbon, knowing his ship will be destroyed. Have I left anything out?"

Uhura shook her head. "Media analysis: Spock may be a madman. Vulcan may be a threat to the Federation. Metcalfe may have been under Saavik's mental control all along."

"And Saavik may have been under Spock's," added Chekov.

"And what's our counter-story?" asked Sulu. "Starfleet was conspiring to kill an innocent child? Led by the most-decorated living officer in the Fleet? Who will buy that?"

Chekov nodded with a grimace. "Sounds like the kind of paranoia imperialist agents used to spout in the twentieth Century."

"And they were dismissed as lunatics."

"But some of them were right," protested Uhura. "Their governments were rife with corruption, and secret operations were being carried out. Innocent people were killed and victimized. Tyrants like Khan were being bred under the public's noses."

Chekov shook his finger and continued in a professorial manner. Sulu could tell he'd been teaching too many classes of late. "Think about the late twentieth century for a minute: My own ancestors, once a major power, had their government crumble out from under them. A world with only one superpower emerged. Without the 'Cold War,' as they called it then, the economy was in a state of upheaval. Jobs were lost, industries failed, because there was no war to prepare for anymore. Worst of all, agencies that had once been necessary stayed in existence through political influence. People kept power they no longer needed and abused it."

"You think that's what's happening to Starfleet?" asked Sulu.

"Don't you?" Uhura said pointedly. "How many Federation-appointed governors are there on worlds outside the main thoroughfare?"

Sulu shrugged. "I don't keep statistics in my head. At least five-hundred."

"Approaching a thousand," Chekov corrected him. "Until this year, those worlds were visited by Starfleet vessels on regular schedules. Some were visited monthly, some biannually, depending on the size of the colony."

Again, Uhura picked up the thought. Apparently, they'd discussed this at length. "Now, with the downsizing of Starfleet, the visitation schedule has been reduced—drastically. Some worlds hear from us as little as once in three years."

"Planetary governors—some of them appointees!—have become the sole authority in their solar systems. They have the power of Starfleet behind them, but no check on their responsibility."

"I know," said Sulu. "I've removed one from power. Guy was violating the prime directive. He'd opened trade relations with the natives in a system with a hands-off directive. Set up his own mini-empire."

"That kind of thing is happening all over the Federation," said Uhura. "We're growing a generation of petty tyrants."

"But as they're identified—" Sulu began.

"How can they be identified if we're not observing them?" Uhura demanded. "You know how many people visited Mussolini's Italy and came back commenting that the trains ran on time? If we only show up every few years and don't even scratch the surface—"

"We don't have the resources," said Sulu.

Chekov spread his hands on the table and took a breath. "Bottom Line: The Federation may have grown too big to govern itself now that the Klingon Empire is no longer a threat. Politically, we can't get the resources we need, because our biggest selling point—that we protect the Federation from the Klingons—doesn't exist anymore. People don't know that we also protected many worlds from their own officials, and don't want to, either."

"We're still offering them that protection," said Sulu. "Fournier and the C in C took action in the case I handled."

Uhura smiled patiently. "But you can't handle every case. You can't be everywhere. When the Soviet Union crumbled three-hundred years ago, the United States had been living on a wartime economy for half a century. It almost didn't survive the shock of losing its enemy. It had put too many programs in place, empowered too many people to oversee once the appropriations couldn't be justified any longer. The minor officials in charge committed abuses, and no one had time to catch them or stop them."

"To speak of a time you're more familiar with, when Czar Richard went off to fight in the crusades—"

" _King_ Richard," Sulu corrected his friend.

"Are you sure?"

"Emphatically. I've been reading Robin Hood since I was four."

"Probably an Imperialist historical revision. At any rate, it took a band of outlaws to maintain order until the rightful ruler came home."

Sulu considered that for a moment. "So, what are you suggesting? That we all become merry men?"

Uhura looked to Chekov. "We think we've reached a point where we're not serving any purpose in Starfleet any longer. We think there's greater good to be done elsewhere."

"Where, exactly? An underground?"

Chekov shrugged. "Every society in trouble has one—needs one!"

"I'm not ready to become Robin Hood," Sulu said carefully.

"Bull!" shot Uhura, grinning. "But I think you are being cast as King Richard this time. You're needed right where you are. You're a representative of what Starfleet should be. You're the system working to perfect itself from the inside."

"And you two want to give it a push from the outside?"

Chekov nodded. "You have to understand, Hikaru, how it felt to tell Fournier that Metcalfe had sabotaged the ship. I was slandering a good man—our friend. I can't keep doing that, just so I can retire in twenty years as a Commander. I could not live with myself. I broke regulations with them, just as we did with Captain Kirk ten years ago. I have to admit that."

"Where will you go?"

"We can take care of ourselves," said Uhura. "Don't worry. _And_ we can help you."

Sulu had enough to absorb for now. Two of his oldest friends were planning to run off and play pirates, while several of the others had disappeared into an anomaly.

"We'll talk more later," he said, getting up from his chair. "I... well, lets go see if this crazy plan of Spock's is going to work. And listen..."

"Yes?" asked Uhura.

"I know it sticks in your craw, but keep up the deception. Stick to claiming ignorance, for a little while longer. Maybe then I can help you get to Sherwood Forest."

Chekov spread his hands in a gesture of compliance. "We live to serve, your majesty."

"Cut that out!"


	25. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't talk to me—I'm dead! Vulcan sonofabitch finally went and got me killed. I knew he was planning it all along."

Chapter Twenty-Two

Leonard McCoy was a careful man, even as surgeons went. Because of that peculiarity of character, he hadn't often found himself awakening in a place he didn't remember going to sleep. The few such times he could remember, he had always awakened to the face of Jim Kirk. Usually, it was all Kirk's fault to begin with.

Leonard McCoy awoke, having no idea where he was, or how he'd got there. Sure enough, the face smiling down at him belonged to James T. Kirk.

"Oh, shit!" moaned McCoy. He closed his eyes and laid his head back down.

"Bones," said a familiar voice. The word came ensconced in a happy chuckle.

"Don't talk to me—I'm dead! Vulcan sonofabitch finally went and got me killed. I knew he was planning it all along."

"Bones," the voice said more urgently, and a hand grasped his shoulder hard.

McCoy opened his eyes. The late Captain was still there, still smiling. "Seeing one dead person doesn't necessarily mean you're in Heaven."

Sitting up, McCoy growled, "Who said anything about Heaven? It's the last place I'd expect to find you." He looked around, saw Spock standing a few feet away. " _Now_ I know where I am. Well, at least _he'll_ find gainful employment."

Kirk started to laugh and didn't appear to be able to stop.

"Would somebody please tell me what's going on here?" demanded McCoy.

Kirk calmed down enough to smile apologetically. "I'm sorry there wasn't time to prepare you, Bones—"

Immediately, Spock's behavior of the last few days began to make sense. He levelled an angry glare at the Vulcan. "You knew?"

Spock nodded.

McCoy couldn't believe it. Spock had known Jim was still alive all along. "I didn't know even you could be that insensitive! Did you think I couldn't be trusted to know—"

"Doctor, please—" Spock began. He was interrupted by a crashing sound from within the house. House? McCoy hadn't really examined his surroundings. He was propped against a pile of wood, in a grassy yard with an open blue sky overhead. The log house nearby—the one toward which Jim was running in alarm—was one he'd visited often, before it had been sold. It was Jim's.

"Spock," he demanded, "How did we get here?"

But Spock had taken off after Jim, as had the others. Damn! Where had Saavik taken Preston? McCoy's first priority was to keep the boy stable as long as possible. When the lights had gone out, Preston had been convulsing. Now?

The sound of voices raised in anger, mixed with the unmistakable crash of furniture being overturned, carried from within the house. McCoy jumped to his feet—was surprised at how easy it suddenly was, as if the stiff muscles that had plagued him these past years had miraculously recovered . He ran for the house.

In Jim's living room, the small group stood dumbfounded: Spock with his eyebrow raised. Preston—standing!—with his head buried in Saavik's jacket as Carol wrapped a protective arm around him. Metcalfe, looking for an opening to intercede between the two men who grappled on the ancient, oval rug in front of them.

Of course, one of the men was Jim Kirk. McCoy knew he'd kept in shape, right up to his death. He'd hadn't seen him tear into another being like this in a long time, though. He might have been thirty again. For god's sake, his shirt was ripped—and smeared with blood!

"Jim!" he demanded, "What the hell—?"

He started forward, but Spock's hand on his arm restrained him. "No, Doctor," said the Vulcan. "I believe the Captain wishes to deal with this alone."

On the floor, Kirk seized his opponent's leg, flipped him onto his back, and McCoy saw who it was Jim was fighting.

"Fournier," he muttered, bewildered. "How'd he get here?"

"No doubt," said Spock calmly, "the same way we did. He deduced that the energy ribbon was a gateway to this... Nexus."

"That's right," said Fournier, raggedly. He was trying to stand. He dabbed at the blood from a split lip and grinned. "And I know you're—"

Kirk threw himself headlong at the Commodore, impacting his midsection. His momentum carried them both back down, where Fournier's skull struck hard against the fireplace's stone frame. Fournier pushed against his opponent, growling now like a madman; but Kirk held him down, pummeling his face with blow after heavy blow of his fist.

When the Commodore ceased his attempts to throw Kirk off balance, Kirk dropped him to the floor, stood, and grinned down at him, breathing raggedly.

"Get up," Kirk spat. "Get up and finish this on your feet."

Fournier shook his head. "No point," he muttered, his jaw slack. "Your... p-playing field."

Kirk nodded. "You're damned right it is. No cheering plebes behind you. No unarmed scientists and defenseless children standing between you and political expedience. You're facing me—on my ground. And I'm not going to let my family suffer at anyone's hands any more!"

Fournier coughed, but a low, deadly chuckle mixed with the wet, choking sound. "You haven't... really beaten me... have you? This... isn't reality... and—"

Kirk's temper snapped, with a force none of them had seen before. Everyone in this room could have testified that Jim Kirk was temperamental, a hothead; but none of them had ever seen this level of savagery. He shrieked at the man beneath him, the fool who didn't know when to shut up and quit taunting him. Cursing, he launched himself forward, seized Fournier by his jacket lapel, and slammed him, bodily, against the stone chimney. Kirk released him, and Fournier slid, limp, to the floor.

Standing over him, his breaths coming in gasps, Kirk muttered one word: "Bastard."

And then it was clear to McCoy. This was not about George Fournier, an insect, a pest, whose low opinion of Kirk probably pleased him more than it upset him. This was about many others. This was Kruge, laying before him, having given the casual order which ended his son's life. This was Khan Noonian Singh, who'd murdered all of Carol's friends on Regula I, and then caused Spock's death. This was the stupid, but malicious collective organism which had killed his brother Sam. This was the intelligence that masked itself as fate that had given Gary Mitchell such power that Kirk had been forced to kill his best friend.

This was about every loss Kirk had ever suffered and had moved past without pausing to consider his pain. This was forty years of the murderous rage of a leader who had, until now, put moving forward ahead of any desire for revenge.

George Fournier had tried to kill Jim's grandson, failed, and hung around to let Jim get his hands on him. For once, someone had gone too far, and there was something Jim Kirk could do about it. Despite his anger, clearly abating, Kirk smiled. McCoy guessed it must have felt satisfying to finally, really cut loose against an opponent.

"You okay, Jim?" he asked.

Kirk nodded. "Fine. In fact, that felt pretty good." He grinned to McCoy. "I suppose you want to patch him up now?"

McCoy stepped forward, shrugging, even as he pulled out his tricorder and medikit. "Guess I'd better," he said. But as he flipped the tricorder open and its tiny screen gave a preliminary readout, he felt a creeping dread. Things had gone too far. It was impossible, but...

"Jim," he said quietly. "I'm getting no life readings. He's dead."

Kirk's face registered surprise. He looked past McCoy, at the body. Then a dawning recognition filled his features. "Of course," he said quietly, almost to himself. Then somewhat louder, "Don't worry, Bones. Look." He nodded towards Fournier.

McCoy turned. Fournier was gone. "What the hell—?" he muttered.

"He couldn't be allowed to stay," said Kirk. "He wasn't meant to be here."

"Captain," said Spock, coming forward now. "Are you saying there is someone... orchestrating what happens in the Nexus?"

"You could say that."

"Who?" Spock asked.

Kirk gave a tight smile. "That, I couldn't say. Not yet." He looked at the audience that had assembled for his fight. "Don't worry about the good Commodore. He'll be... taken care of." He walked toward Carol. Beside her, Preston was only now showing his face again. He looked at Kirk while huddling close to Saavik, a mixture of apprehension and curiosity on his face. It was clear that, while the fight had upset him, this man held a special fascination for him.

Carol reached out and grabbed Jim's hands in her own, her lips mouthing dozens of words, unable to bring any of them out. She smiled and wept, all at the same time. "Jim," she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief, "None of this makes any sense."

Smiling, Kirk brought his hands up to cup her face gently. "It will," he said. "There'll be plenty of time to explain, I promise."

Before she could press the issue, Kirk turned to Preston, knelt, and gave his best friendly starship captain smile. McCoy had seen it used on many children, though perhaps it had never been quite so natural or filled with pride before. "And who might this young man be?"

All of them opened their mouths to answer the question, but it was Spock, surprising them all, who actually did. "That young man is my son," he said matter-of-factly.

Kirk, bothered by nothing now, laughed. "Fascinating."

McCoy found himself growing restless over his patient's condition. "Will someone at least tell me why Preston has suddenly recovered? A few minutes ago, he was in a coma—dying!"

"Time has no meaning here, Bones," Kirk explained. "Consequently, illness, age and death are irrelevant concepts. If Preston were to return to the normal time stream right now, he would revert to his previous state and die." He turned to the boy and smiled, "But we're not going to let that happen, are we?"

Preston smiled shyly, not quite understanding. "We're not?"

"Jim," Spock said, "our mission to find a cure in the ruins of Pellegrinos was not successful. We brought Preston to you, as you asked; but we've run out of time. He will have to remain with you."

"Didn't I tell you time has no meaning here?" asked Kirk. "There are things I didn't tell you, Spock." McCoy bristled at that. It was clear that Kirk had communicated with Spock before this, and no one had told him.

Kirk went on. "We knew you wouldn't be able to save Preston without bringing him here. The data from Pellegrinos can save him, yes, but... not all by itself."

"Jim," asked Carol, her voice impatient. "What are you talking about? We gathered as many of the Kallistan records as we could, but I don't know if Leonard and I can make sense of it all. I wasn't the one who really designed the Genesis matrix. I don't know if I can perfect the process. Let's not get our hopes up. This may be beyond our abilities, even given all the time in the world."

Kirk considered that a moment, then said reasonably, "Maybe." He stood, taking Carol's hand in one of his, Preston's in the other, and started towards the front door. "But I think I know a guy who can help."

McCoy couldn't say how long it had taken them to get there, or if they'd walked, or if they'd passed any sights along the way. It was a disorienting sensation, to know that there had been a period of getting to the destination, but not knowing what had happened.

They were in a huge room, which dwarfed the size of the _Enterprise_ 's engineering section. McCoy couldn't begin to understand the function of the devices which surrounded them. He felt the way a lab rat must have felt when he carried it, caged, into his own sickbay.

"Is this a laboratory?" he asked Kirk.

"Exactly that," said Kirk. "In fact, this is what the Nexus is really all about. This," he gestured about them, "is its core. All the null-time fields surrounding it, inhabited by lost explorers from throughout time and space, are really just incidental to its purpose. The work done here generates the Nexus as a by-product."

"Fascinating," said Spock. "And what is the work done here?"

"This lab was built by a race so ancient that they abandoned physical bodies before the earth was formed," said Kirk, his voice echoing off the immense walls, taking on an unearthly quality. McCoy was reminded of Sargon, the disembodied intelligence in his subterranean vault.

"Or, maybe," Kirk continued, "They were born aeons after Earth died."

"Of course," agreed Spock, "as this place is outside the time stream, its creators could come from any point on time's axis."

"Anywhen," said Kirk. "And anywhere. Maybe they were Carol's Kallistans. Or maybe humanity itself, or even the Klingons. Who knows? The point is, once this race had exhausted its interest in exploring the physical aspects of our universe, they turned to exploring the past and future. I guess you could call them chrononauts, exploring time."

"Sounds dangerous," said Metcalfe.

"Excruciatingly so, Captain," said Kirk. "And they had quite a system of rules governing their explorations, preventing damage to the fabric of time. They created a legion of... policemen, to maintain those rules, automated guardians, who—"

"Jim," interrupted Carol, her voice strained. "This is all very interesting, but I think you've spent too long outside time."

Kirk grinned. "Longer than you can imagine."

"You're forgetting that we came to the Nexus to save Preston. What does all this have to do with him?"

Jim Kirk had never born interruption well. McCoy had often seen his face tinge, his jaw tighten, when someone had interrupted him at a meeting, or, worse, on his bridge. Now, however, he seemed to have gained an inexhaustible reservoir of patience. He smiled at Carol.

"It has everything to do with Preston. You see, this laboratory is not totally abandoned. Those automated guardians I mentioned—"

And then it hit McCoy. "Jim—you're saying that this is where they built it—the Guardian of Forever!"

Kirk nodded. " _Guardians._ There were thousands of them. Many still exist in our time."

"But the one we encountered before is gone," said Spock.

"Yes," said Kirk. "You see, the Guardians began as automatons, but their creators quickly realized that, to govern living beings, they needed a living consciousness in each one. Each Guardian absorbed an intelligence as it encountered one which it deemed appropriate."

Carol shook her head. "I still don't get it, Jim. How can knowing the origin of this... Guardian... how can it help Preston?"

There was a voice behind them. A familiar voice. An unbelievable voice. The surprises for the day were not yet over.

"Because," said the voice behind them, at the door, "the Guardian of Forever, which you thought had been destroyed, is here."

Everyone turned.

"Because," the new arrival continued, "Preston needs the creator of Genesis to save him. He needs his father. And here I am."

Standing in the doorway, David Marcus smiled.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I would seem to be surrounded by dead people."

Chapter Twenty-Three

Some part of Carol's mind wondered if she could take any more shocks in the course of this particular day. The part that controlled her outward reactions, however, wasn't producing any conscious thoughts at this moment. After surviving a phaser bombardment and the death of Kallistopolis, after accepting her grandson's imminent death as he slipped into a coma and accepting her own death as the _Pandora_ was torn apart around her, she'd been brought here.

Here, where Preston had suddenly regained consciousness and begun acting like a healthy child.

Here, where Jim Kirk, the man she'd lost to his career, then to the bitterness of grief, and finally to death, waited for her, alive and well.

Here, where David, a decade dead, greeted her within an aeons-old laboratory in a zone outside space and time. It was all too much to believe, too much to hope for.

"Well," she said slowly, "I would seem to be surrounded by dead people. And, given that our ship just broke up inside an immense gravity field—"

"You think that you must be dead, too, and this must be the afterlife?" finished Kirk. He shook his head. "No. We're all alive here." He shot a sideways glance at David, then added, "Present company excepted, of course."

David laughed for a moment, then, catching his mother's eye, gave her a sad, understanding smile. "I know this must be overwhelming, Mom, but... it's me. Really."

Should she believe him? Jim had told her tales of shape-shifters, of androids who'd posed as him, aliens who claimed to be Abraham Lincoln and Surak, amusement park mechanoids who'd appeared as fairy tale characters and long-lost loves. Maybe this wasn't David. Maybe this wasn't Jim. Maybe Preston had died and been replaced by a clever facsimile. She considered this possibility, that her entire family, re-united, were really some collection of alien con-men. It wasn't safe to throw herself willingly into their clutches.

She'd spent her entire life being safe, and she was tired of it. It had made no difference. Tragedy would strike despite her best efforts. She threw herself into her son's arms and held him close.

When she recovered her senses enough to feel eyes on them and realized a pair of those eyes belonged to Saavik, she felt guilty. She turned to where the young woman maintained a respectful distance. Carol beckoned to Saavik, and to Preston. "I'm being selfish. There are some others who might like to see you."

Saavik led Preston forward, her face an impassive mask. The boy stared up at David, unsure. Carol reached out, gathered Preston in one arm, and pulled him forward. "This is your Dad, Preston," she said.

He seemed to mull her words over. It was frightening how much he looked like Spock when he did that—Spock, with David's blond curls and Saavik's piercing eyes.

"Dad," he repeated, looking David up and down. He turned to Carol, "What's 'Dad?'"

David sank down to one knee and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Preston. Let's just say I'm someone who's very glad to finally meet you."

"Oh," said Preston gravely. "I'm glad to meet you, too... Dad."

David looked up at Saavik, who still maintained her mask of control. Carol envied her ability to turn her feelings off when they were too much.

"Hello, Saavik," David said. "I've missed you."

"And I you," said Saavik. "I—" she stopped, unsure of what to say, and glanced back at Metcalfe.

"It's okay," said David. "I've been watching. I know everything that's happened." He included Metcalfe as he said, "I'm happy you both found each other. I'm sorry it had to take so long."

Metcalfe's eyes narrowed. "You say that like it's your fault."

"Well," David admitted, "I have to say I've... had a hand in what's been happening."

Jim looked from one puzzled face to the next, and said to David, "I think it's time we explained ourselves."

David nodded. "Get comfortable, people. It's a long story. Saavik, you and Terry know now that there was an alternate universe, a pocket universe of sorts, where the two of you met ten years ago. That universe was artificially created by the Guardian of Forever. Subtle changes were made in the time stream, all having to do with the events surrounding Khan's seizure of Genesis. Specifically, Spock's katra was removed from Dr. McCoy's mind, Admiral Morrow was persuaded not to decommission _Enterprise_ , and I was likewise persuaded not to go to Genesis."

"So," said Carol, piecing it together, "Leonard never exhibited the symptoms which caused Jim to return to Genesis, you weren't on _Grissom_ , so you didn't die..."

"And I stayed on as Captain of the _Enterprise_ , with Saavik and Metcalfe as two of my officers," finished Kirk. "Spock stayed dead, and David stayed alive, in an alternate universe, a branch of our own, if you will."

"Fascinating," said Spock. "Dr. Marcus, you said the Guardian created this universe. It intentionally caused an alternate timeline to break off from our own?"

"Yes."

"For what purpose?"

"To protect me," said Kirk. "Apparently, I was in danger of going off the deep end."

David resumed his explanation. "My death, Mr. Spock, following so quickly on the heels of yours, and coupled with the destruction of the _Enterprise_ , were very taxing for our heroic Captain here. Believe it or not, he bottled up his emotions most of his life even more than you Vulcans do. When his grief began to overwhelm him, he didn't know how to cope any more. He was overwhelmed by despair. He needed a chance to recover."

"Are you saying an entire universe was created to save Jim's sanity?" asked McCoy.

"Precisely. In the alternate universe, he was given the opportunity to grieve for Spock, and to consider his destiny."

"I had convinced myself I didn't want to command a starship anymore, you'll recall," added Kirk. "The alternate universe was the proving ground where I was allowed to make a decision about my future, without the traumatic events at Genesis. On our first mission, my mind joined with an alien intelligence, and witnessed the destruction of a starship from within the mind of her captain. My mind reasoned that I was that captain, that I had died, and so it began to shut down. Saavik mind-melded with me, brought me out, and showed me that I did want to go on living. I wanted the _Enterprise_ back."

"Once my father's mind was put back on a safe track," David went on, "the pocket universe was no longer needed. The Guardian sent a telepathic call to Spock, in your own universe, and summoned him to go into the pocket universe and lead a mission to undo the changes. The pocket universe's very existence was to end, and it would be reconciled back into its parent universe. The benefits for Jim Kirk would be locked into his subconscious, but he wouldn't remember what had happened to him."

"If I'm following you," said McCoy—and I'm not really sure I am!—you're saying that's what should have happened. Didn't it?"

"Things didn't go exactly as planned. Spock did use the guardian to travel back to the day of his funeral and remove his katra from your mind, Doctor. Metcalfe also completed his mission to assist Spock in freeing Admiral Morrow's mind of its telepathic constraints, putting him back on the course of decommissioning _Enterprise_ and sending _Grissom_ to Genesis with Saavik and myself. He also left a gift for Saavik—a book—in her quarters while he was back in time. It was that creation of a paradox which disrupted the time stream and created the bond between them in your universe. They both know this part, from their previous visit to the Nexus.

"What none of you knew, until now, was that Saavik also disrupted the time stream on her trip through time. Her job was to mind meld with me and make the changes in my mind which would cause me to go to Genesis. She completed her task, but in the process..."

"I lost control of the meld," Saavik admitted, a faint tinge of green on her face. "I... bonded with David." She look at the ground. Carol could tell she was profoundly embarrassed.

"There is no shame in failing at that which is beyond your abilities," Spock said quietly. "You were not sufficiently trained."

"I wouldn't be here now, Saavik, if you hadn't created that bond."

Saavik looked up sharply, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"The bond, as you know, leaves a piece of one consciousness in the mind of another. You would have gone into the reconciled, single universe, carrying around a piece of me that wasn't supposed to be there." He stopped and smiled at Preston. "In addition to the piece of me that was. That created another paradox—a more serious one, since I was supposed to be dead. The Guardian was forced to remedy that paradox, in the only way it knew how. It absorbed my consciousness."

"You became... part of the Guardian?" asked Carol.

"I... became the Guardian. We told you that there was a virtual police force of guardians created, automatons protecting time. One by one, those automatons selected a living being from the time stream to join with, giving them a sentient perspective that their designers had not. The Guardian of Forever, the one you're familiar with, selected me as its sentient personality."

"So the Guardian had gone without a personality... all those millennia?" asked McCoy.

"No. Time is irrelevant to the Guardian, even though time is its business. The single point of joining doesn't matter. Once I became the Guardian, my existence with it spanned all history, past and present. Those who created the Guardians changed the universe forever, in a way they could never have conceived. They actually created a race of immortals."

"My god," muttered McCoy.

"Possibly," agreed Spock.

"You see, the Guardians are not perfect. The automatons lacked morality and judgement. The sentient Guardians were often still emotionally attached to their loved ones. Occasionally, they interfered with the fabric of time to help someone they cared about."

"As you did," said Carol, "When you created an alternate universe to help Jim?"

David nodded. "As Jim and I have now interfered to save Preston. Although that was necessary, in any event. He wasn't meant to die. Saavik's meld with me also prevented me from completing notes which Mom could otherwise have used to save his life."

"There is one point which is unclear to me," said Spock.

"Only one?" asked McCoy.

Spock ignored him. "Why was the Guardian not there when we went to seek it? Could you not have completed your work from there?"

"I could have, if my only job were to save Preston. But the very fact that I could arbitrarily interfere in the course of time, bend it to my own personal whim, disturbed me. I realized that the work of the Guardians' creators was unfinished. Eventually, the capriciousness of a Guardian might create a cataclysm which none of the others could repair. I decided to come here, to the laboratory where they were created, to continue the research.

"When I came here, my focal point in your universe—the Guardian—ceased to be."

"And the energy ribbon," asked Spock. "Was it always the gateway to this place?"

"No," said David. "I created the energy ribbon for a very specific purpose."

"A fishing rod," said Kirk, "designed to reel me in."

David shrugged. "I couldn't continue my work alone. I needed advice, moral support, companionship. I didn't think there was any harm in bringing a few people here to join me, people whose time had come to die."

"I was the first," said Kirk. "If it hadn't been for the energy ribbon, I would have died in some other fashion on the day of _Enterprise_ -B's launch. David just changed the manner of my death so that it became a way to bring me to him."

"So..." Carol said, "you're not dead? When you were blown into space, you landed here?"

"Yes and no. Yes, I landed here—alive. No, I didn't stay alive. What you see now is... a representation of me. My physical body returned to our universe... and died."

"When did that happen?" asked Spock.

Kirk smiled. "In your time, Spock, it hasn't happened yet. I can't tell you more."

"Spock," McCoy said accusingly, "you knew everything, didn't you?"

"Not everything, no," Spock answered.

"Don't blame him, Bones. I sent Spock a taped message, detailing my plan for you to go to Pellegrinos, retrieve the data David needed, and bring Preston here. I also had him push the right buttons on earth to get Captain Metcalfe where he needed to be."

"Then my getting command of _Phoenix_ wasn't meant to happen?"

Kirk shrugged. "Who knows? Part of David's concern is that the course of time has been so tampered with—our own tampering included!—that we can no longer authoritatively say what is and isn't supposed to happen. We don't recognize every change that's been wrought. My physical death came about because of David's creation of the energy ribbon. That event affected other lives and caused me to have to take action in the physical universe. We're immortals, sitting on the edge of time, controlling it, manipulating it... and not really understanding it."

"Then why do it?" asked McCoy.

"Because... someone has to. We do know that action must be taken, to prevent a descent into chaos, entropy. We don't know, necessarily, which actions are correct. It's a lot like being alive."

"We're watching," said David, "and intervening when we think we need to. Preston," he smiled at his son, "has a destiny. We know that. If we hadn't assisted you, Mom would have failed in her attempt to save him. Both of them would have died on Pellegrinos, when Preston wasn't supposed to."

David, Carol noticed, spoke the last words very carefully. She didn't miss their meaning. "I _was_ supposed to die on Pellegrinos, wasn't I?"

Jim's voice registered pain for the first time during the conversation. "In the undisturbed time stream, Fournier would have... killed you, in his attempt to get at Preston." The look in his eyes told her much. He'd witnessed those events, as they were meant to happen. She understood, even more, his anger at Fournier, his desire to live the experience of actually raising a hand against him. In some reality, Fournier was her murderer.

David put his arm around her shoulders. "I hope you can forgive us for interfering one more time, Mom... You can't leave here."

She studied his face. He truly was sorry that he'd kidnapped her here, interfering with... what? Her shot at the afterlife? Had he shanghaied her soul on its way to Valhalla? Or Hades? She looked to Jim. He, too, looked... hopeful? And apologetic.

"So," she said slowly, "I'm sentenced to spend all eternity with the two of you." She stroked David's cheek fondly. "I rebuilt my life after you died, David." She looked at Jim. " _We_ rebuilt our lives. And then I lost your father, too. To be honest, I hadn't really decided what I would do next. I was thinking about a research project." She reached out to Jim. He took her hand, held it to his lips, and kissed her palm.

"Looks like I found one," she said.

Kirk stood on the hill in front of his house with Spock and McCoy. David had completed the genetic repairs on Preston, and they were preparing to return to their own time and space. According to the human time sense of his friends, they'd spent several hours in the Nexus. They would be able to return at any time they wished and planned to appear on _Excelsior_ shortly after their journey here. McCoy looked at the house, the mountains beyond, the smoke, curling out of the chimney, and sighed peacefully. "It's ironic," he observed. "We found the Guardian, introduced it to the human race."

Spock nodded agreement. "And you, Captain, paid a high price for that."

"Yes," Kirk said quietly. "That was a long time ago."

"But now..." McCoy looked at him seriously. "You and David and Carol... you're the new Guardians of Forever, aren't you?"

"Well, let's not put on airs."

"False modesty doesn't become you, Jim," said Spock. "In truth, I can think of no one I would sooner trust eternity to." He paused a moment, then added, "No human, in any case."

McCoy glared. "You green-blooded sonofabitch."

Kirk could no longer find it in him to be annoyed by their squabbling. He could see past it now and was grateful to be able to hear it. It was a reminder that somehow, things would stay on course, as they were meant to. "I'll miss you both," he said. "Take care of yourselves. Take care of my grandson."

"We will," said Spock. "We all will."

"There's one more thing I have to tell you, before you go," Kirk said. "It's about Fournier."

Harry Morrow spun frantically in his chair as a crash sounded behind him. His first thought was that the wall was caving in, that some component had failed in the system of stabilizers that had tamed the San Andreas fault a century ago.

But there was no debris of crumbled concrete on the floor behind him, there was only George Fournier, rubbing his backside, and looking unusually put out.

"George?" he demanded. Fournier had shipped out on _Enterprise_ only days ago. He couldn't be back. "What the hell—!"

"Bastard," muttered Fournier to himself as he stood. "I'm sure he didn't have to deposit me in mid-air!"

"Who deposited you in mid-air?"

Fournier looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. There was a wild look in his eye, a look of fear. It was as if he thought his answer might get him in trouble.

"Kirk," he said finally.

"George—" Morrow began in a warning tone.

Fournier held up his hand. "Please," he barked. "Just wait until I tell you what I went through to get here. You simply won't believe it."

"At least you're prepared," said Morrow.

"Just listen, Harry. I've learned a lot. And we've got to make plans. Drastic ones."

From the look on Fournier's face, Morrow decided he'd better sit down. A few minutes later, he decided they'd better both have a few drinks.

From the high ground in a wooded area of Kirk's family home, Saavik watched David and Preston by the creekside below. David was putting considerable effort into teaching Preston the principles of physics involved in setting spherical stones into motion such that they skimmed the surface of the water, colliding with it several times, before sinking. She wondered why he chose that particular scientific principle to teach Preston in the few hours they had together. Humans still made very little sense to her. How ironic, then, that she was bonded to one now.

Terry was stretched out, his back against the tree, his eyes shut. He wasn't asleep, she could tell through the bond. She took a moment to watch him, to notice the square set of his jaw, the leanness of his arms and legs, the spots of sunlight, refracted through the leaves, playing across his face.

She liked the way he looked, she decided. She hadn't had a chance to think about it before, in the urgency of their joining. Vulcans, though they were creatures with a keen appreciation of aesthetics, didn't place much emphasis on the physical appearance of a prospective mate. Perhaps she was being un-Vulcan, then, but she derived a distinct pleasure from looking at her husband. Perhaps it was the very un-Vulcanness of the sensation that she enjoyed.

He spoke, disrupting her thoughts. "May I say, Commander, that I get a distinct feeling of pleasure from looking at you, too."

She smiled and went to sit beside him. "You're getting very skilled at reading my thoughts."

He responded without opening his eyes. "Mmmm. So don't try to hide anything from me."

"I would not," she said. It alarmed her that the thought had even crossed his mind.

His eyes opened, he took her hand, and she felt foolish as she realized that there was no suspicion in him. "I was teasing you, Saavik. We've gotta lighten you up. And don't you dare tell me that your relative mass cannot be appreciably altered, despite a strict diet."

She smiled again. She'd been about to say just that.

"I meant you should stop taking things so seriously."

"I believe," she said, trying to inject audible humor into her voice the way he often did, "that the appropriate phrase is, 'look who's talking.'"

He laughed and leaned back against the tree. "So it is. I've been pretty grim these past few months." He squeezed her hand. "Guess I just needed someone to help share the burden of being savior of the universe."

He was making fun of himself, she knew. He didn't literally believe he was a messiah figure, he just knew well that his tendency was to try to solve every problem, soothe every hurt, that came into his sphere of influence. He knew it was a misguided effort, in many cases. He also knew he would probably never stop. It was a very human attitude. It was fortunate that he had some idea how to bear adversity, for the path ahead of them would not be a clear or easy one.

"Terry," she said, waiting for him to open his eyes. "You know that we will be unable to return to our positions. We will be court martialled."

He nodded but didn't stop smiling. "I know. Would you have done anything differently?"

"No."

"Then who cares what Starfleet has to say?"

"They will send us to a rehabilitation facility."

"They'll have to catch us first."

"Do you mean that?" she asked. "You believe we should evade arrest?"

He reached out and took both her hands in his. "I have no intention of letting Starfleet separate us, Saavik. I've waited a decade to be with you, without even realizing that it was what I wanted. I'm not giving up now. Let Harry Morrow send every agent he has after us. We'll stay one step ahead of them."

"It will be a difficult life."

"It's the only life I can have with you, Saavik. That makes it better than any other."

He kissed her, not rushing, then stood. "David and Preston are heading our way. I'll take the kid for a walk."

"Why?" she asked as she got to her feet.

"Don't you want some time alone with David?"

"That... isn't necessary."

"But... Saavik, it's okay. I know what he means to you."

"He was my first love. For many years, he was my only one. Now, you are my bondmate... my husband. That is my choice. We will make our farewells as a family. You, Preston, David and myself." She reached out and placed her hand on his face, stroking his short hair, and said firmly, "that is what we are."

"And Spock? Isn't he Preston's father too?"

"I..." Saavik looked away from him. She didn't know exactly what Spock's opinion was on that matter, and she found she didn't want to contemplate it now. "That is his choice. I do not know what Spock would say now. David—"

David interrupted her. He and Preston had run most of the way. Preston was out of breath, but happy. "Talking about us?"

"Would you rather we weren't?" Terry asked him.

David thought for a moment, then gave Terry an understanding smile. "Maybe I'll agree with Oscar Wilde on that one."

Saavik was pleased that she recalled the quote they both seemed to know—"There is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about." They were treating each other in a friendly manner. She had read much about jealousy among human males. She was gratified to see that these two who were part of her life didn't seem to be suffering from it.

//Don't be too sure// came an intruding thought in her mind. //I could learn to hate a six-foot-tall former lover with blonde hair and blue eyes.//

His thoughts brought her great concern. //You would hate another because his coloration and height differ from yours? I do not believe that.//

//I'm kidding you again, love. David's physical type represents an ideal in my culture. We brunettes of indeterminate height—//

//I find the contrast between the two of you extremely pleasing. Any preference based on such superficial characteristics alone would be illogical.//

His laughter echoed in her mind. //Now I know why I married a Vulcan.//

The mental conversation had taken the space of a second. David hadn't noticed, although Preston was looking at them curiously. Saavik knew he couldn't read their thoughts, but it was a promising sign that his telepathic abilities extended to being able to sense communication in a bonded pair.

David looked at Saavik sadly. "You have to go."

"Yes," she said. "I wish—"

"That I could come with you? I'd like nothing better than to see our son grow up—even if I have to share him with another father..." He looked meaningfully at Terry. "Or two."

"What do you mean?" Preston asked. "Do some children have only one father?"

His question caused both men some amusement. Saavik assumed it was because David had grown up away from his father. Terry... she hadn't asked about his family, but she sensed a memory of a similar situation. There was much territory they could yet explore within each other's minds. "I guess we each have the number we need," Terry said to Preston.

The boy nodded, as though this were reasonable, then turned to David. "David—Dad? Can't you come with us? I... I like you." He looked back at Saavik, whispering, "Is that the right word?"

She couldn't help but smile. "That is fine."

"I like you too, kid," said David. "I'll be watching you, but there have to be some rules."

"Even for the master of time and space?" Terry asked.

"I'm not that. Maybe just a policeman."

"What's a policeman?" asked Preston.

"You're going to spend a lot of time in telepathic learning sessions, Saavik." Terry said with a sideways glance.

"Preston will be learning a great deal," she agreed, "from both of us."

"And you from him, I bet," said David. He held out his arms, and Saavik hugged him. "Be happy Saavik," he said as her hair covered his face.

She pulled back, looked at him, then at Terry and Preston, and smiled. "I believe I will."

"And, Captain." David held out his hand to Terry, who shook it firmly. "Take care of my—our—family."

"I'll do my best, Doc."

Terry took Saavik's hand, as she and David each took one of Preston's. Together, they walked toward the house, and their final exit from the Nexus.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Does it trouble you that you are not a full Vulcan?"
> 
> She looked at him now, her eyes blazing with anger and pain. This, at least, was some sign that the child he'd taken in so long ago was still a part of her. This was that child's savagery and distrust that confronted him.
> 
> "It troubles you, does it not?" she asked pointedly. "It troubles you to be disgraced by having joined with, produced a child with, a halfbreed."

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sulu had barely made it to the bridge, following his meeting with Chekov and Uhura, when he'd had to turn around and leave. Tuvok reported an intruder alert in the Captain's quarters. Sulu had waved off the young Vulcan's urgings that he send a security force and gone to investigate on his own. After all, he knew full well whom he expected to find in his quarters. He summoned Chekov and Uhura to join him there as well.

From the time the _Pandora_ had broken up in the energy ribbon, it had been only thirty minutes until Sulu opened the door of his cabin to find Spock, McCoy, Saavik, Terry Metcalfe and Preston Marcus waiting for him. He supposed he should have been surprised to see the boy so full of health, but then, he didn't think they would have returned without him.

"Where's Dr. Marcus?" he asked, noting the missing face.

Spock said quietly, "She... will not be returning."

"Spock," Sulu asked, "what the hell is beyond that ribbon? Where does it lead?"

"I regret that that information must remain confidential," said Spock. "Have you had word from Commodore Fournier?"

"No. He followed you in a shuttle. Didn't you see him... in there?"

"We did," said McCoy. "We're... not exactly sure what's happened to him."

"If he doesn't surface, that's going to look bad for all of you."

"Indeed," said Spock. "He is a powerful man. Those held responsible for his disappearance will be reviled by a large faction of the Federation." He sighed and said decisively, "I am prepared to resign from the Vulcan Diplomatic Corps—"

Coming forward, Metcalfe interrupted, "No. That won't be necessary, Spock."

"Explain."

Terry took a breath, looked at Saavik before continuing. She nodded imperceptibly. "Saavik stole the _Pandora_. I sabotaged the _Phoenix_. What did you do?"

"I masterminded the operation."

Terry shook his head. "You did favors for friends. That's all you have to say. You didn't know the we were working to restore Genesis."

"You were not."

"But Starfleet must believe we were," pressed Saavik. "To the Federation at large, Preston's existence will never be known. Starfleet can't afford the rumors such knowledge would spark. _We_ can't afford to have Preston be a target."

"Admiral Morrow will not believe that, nor will Commodore Fournier. He—"

"We don't even know that Fournier's alive!" Metcalfe insisted.

Spock and McCoy exchanged glances. "He is," said Spock with certainty.

"All right, then," said Metcalfe. "So he's alive. Starfleet knows he blew up Kallistopolis. They know someone went after him from _Phoenix_ —"

"They know," said Spock, "that I was on the ship that fled _Enterprise_ into the Nexus. They know that I used physical force against Commodore Fournier."

"You think he'd tell them that you almost broke his neck?" asked Metcalfe. "Most humans won't admit to losing a fight."

"Illogical," said Spock, "but often true."

"Chekov and Uhura have already testified that they were taken at gunpoint, as was Dr. McCoy," said Sulu.

"I'll sign a statement saying I kidnapped you, Spock, after you came to try and reason with me. You didn't break any laws. It's not illegal for a civilian to board a Starfleet vessel. So you beat the crap out of Fournier. You can't be court martialled any more. The worst he can do is charge you with assault. Throw in diplomatic immunity—"

"I do not dispute that I can escape prosecution," said Spock. "Dr. McCoy can as well. Starfleet will investigate, however. If they are willing to use sophisticated interrogation tactics, they will learn that Preston is alive."

"We cannot hope to prevent them from learning that Preston lives," agreed Saavik. "Not if they are willing to go to extreme lengths to prove it. But, if we attempt to cooperate with Starfleet in any way, they will take him into custody."

"Agreed," said Spock.

Saavik looked at him pointedly. "Are you willing to allow that?"

Spock met her gaze for a moment. "No," he said finally. "He might be safe in their custody, but he would not be free. Where do you propose to take him?"

Saavik looked at Metcalfe, who shrugged. "I have contacts all over. Spies collect them, you know. We can disappear."

McCoy looked pained. He said quietly, "Spock, isn't there some other way? We all did this. We can't let these kids take the blame. Starfleet is wrong—!"

"Right and wrong are relative terms, Doctor. Starfleet's concept of right is dependent upon protecting the majority of Federation citizens. Preston does present a potential threat—"

"Dammit!" hissed McCoy. "So do I! I could build a nuclear bomb and wipe out half a planet, but—"

Spock nodded, cutting him off quietly. "—but there is no logic in a government fearing each citizen as a potential threat. You are quite right. Preston has never demonstrated sociopathic tendencies. He is the unfortunate beneficiary, however, of an exceedingly dangerous technology. He is a living weapon. Starfleet will not allow him to move about unsupervised."

"Nor will we," said Saavik. "The question comes down to who has the right to be his protector, and whom do we trust?"

"I trust us," said Metcalfe firmly.

Spock considered all of this. "If you take Preston and go into hiding, I do believe you are capable of evading capture. Further, Starfleet will not allow a public investigation into the facts, nor will they admit to Preston's existence, anymore than you will. For the sake of internal peace, they will keep this matter quiet."

"I don't think any of you will be bothered, after some initial questions," said Metcalfe.

Spock nodded. "They will monitor our activities, but nothing more." For a long moment, he stood and looked at Saavik, Metcalfe, and Preston, saying nothing.

Terry broke the silence. "I know what you're thinking, Spock. Illogical as it may be, you don't feel it's honorable to make us a target, while you stay behind."

"Vulcan obligation to family makes it a questionable act," admitted Spock.

"You are needed here, Spock," said Saavik. "You have plans for your career that will benefit the entire galaxy."

The door opened, and Chekov and Uhura entered, smiling as they saw the assembled group.

"I trust you're making plans?" Chekov asked.

Saavik nodded. "We will take Preston and go."

"Somewhere," added Metcalfe.

"An escape from Sulu's custody?" asked Uhura.

"That's what it will have to be," agreed Sulu.

"It would be easier for you to escape from _Phoenix_ than from _Excelsior_ , would it not?" asked Chekov.

"Yes," said Metcalfe. " _Phoenix_ is less secure. An escape would be more believable."

Chekov looked at Sulu. "And, since you have to keep _Excelsior_ here to search for the Commodore, _Phoenix_ is the obvious choice to carry the prisoners back to earth. And who more fitting to escort the prisoners than an experienced Security Chief... who has personal experience with their exploits?" He nodded at Chekov.

Sulu smiled. "Flawlessly logical. Well, since we need to move quickly, I'd better start giving orders, hadn't I?" He said formally to Chekov, "Commander Chekov, you and Commander Uhura will take _Phoenix_ and return Commander Saavik and Captain Metcalfe to earth for trial." He smiled at the two "prisoners." "Be careful with them—they're desperate characters."

"And, on the way, they'll just disappear," said Uhura.

"I don't know about that part," said Sulu.

Chekov clapped him on the shoulder. "Of course not, King Richard. You are but a loyal servant of the Federation, just doing his job."

Sulu had a feeling he would be tired of that joke, before too long.

He also had a feeling Chekov was a long way from getting to the punch line.

As they filed out, Spock asked Saavik to speak with him alone, and they walked down the corridor, apart from the others. As had become her custom in recent years, she averted her gaze from his. While this might be expected as a gesture of respect from a Vulcan student to a teacher, it was far, so far, from the assertiveness of that young woman he'd brought from Hellguard, two decades ago.

And it was his own fault, this emotional separation between them. He knew that.

She did not ask what business he was about. That would have been her way before. Now, she allowed him whatever quarter he might crave. "You have no doubt noticed some... reluctance on my part, to accept Preston as my child."

Her eyes darted slightly toward him, but her head remained turned away. She responded with a nod.

"I ask you to believe that I meant no insult to you," he said. "You are..." he found himself groping for the appropriate words. That didn't happen to him often. "You are a superior choice for bonding, or parenting. Any Vulcan male would be fortunate, indeed, to be afforded the opportunity to have a child with you—"

"Were I but Vulcan," she interrupted, making little attempt to cloak her bitterness. "You are being polite, Spock. It is not logical."

"No," he sighed gently. "Nor was it ever necessary between us." He asked a question that her own formality made seem rude, in this context. As her mentor, though, it was one he'd asked before. Hopefully, she would accept this effrontery on his part. "Does it trouble you that you are not a full Vulcan?"

She looked at him now, her eyes blazing with anger and pain. This, at least, was some sign that the child he'd taken in so long ago was still a part of her. This was that child's savagery and distrust that confronted him.

"It troubles _you_ , does it not?" she asked pointedly. "It troubles you to be disgraced by having joined with, produced a child with, a halfbreed." She continued to stare at him, and now he looked away.

"Spock?" she prompted him. "It would be illogical not to admit to one's prejudices. You were ashamed of me."

She said it matter-of-factly, and, had Spock not been adept in bio-control, he knew he would have blushed. It wasn't that she'd caught him in a lie or revealed some hidden part of his nature. He would have blushed in embarrassment that he had hurt this already wounded child so badly that she believed him capable of this kind of rejection. His defense of Valeris, his awkwardness with Saavik since the fal tor pan, his refusal to accept Preston, none of these had surprised her. She thought he held her in contempt.

She'd grown up a half caste, despised by the Romulans, rejected by the Vulcans, looked down upon by anyone who bore physical resemblance to her, until Spock had come into her life. She was accustomed to rejection, and had no doubt feared that he would, someday, reject her as all the others had.

In her eyes, that was what he'd done. In both their eyes, he'd failed her. Had he been an adequate teacher, she would have known that he could not possibly despise her in the way she imagined he did.

He was on unfamiliar ground, the territory of emotion. Rarely had he been called upon to preserve the feelings of another. Rarely had another depended on him in this way. Irrationally, he wished Jim Kirk were here, or that he'd discussed this with him before they'd left the Nexus. Jim would have known how to deal with this situation. Jim knew how to handle emotion.

Then it occurred to him that Jim's son had known him for a total of thirty days before his death and had distrusted and resented him all that time. Perhaps emotional aptitude was not the answer. Nor was the logic that had kept Spock separated from his own father for so long. There was no clear solution to this problem. He would simply have to be honest, and hope his intentions spoke for themselves.

He faced her. "I was ashamed," he said quietly.

Despite her attempt at control, her face dropped.

He held up his hand, came close to putting it to her face in a gesture of open affection, then decided it would not be appropriate now. "I was not ashamed of you, Saavik. I was ashamed of myself."

Her eyes widened, questioning.

"I behaved poorly, on Genesis."

"Your _katra_ was not in place. You cannot be held responsible—"

"Saavik," he interrupted firmly, "I remember. I cannot disavow an action I remember taking, and taking anxiously... hungrily..." For the first time in many years, he allowed the images, the memories, to enter his mind. He remembered the raw passion which had flooded his being as he'd taken her. He remembered the savage he'd been. "I must accept responsibility."

She continued to stare at him.

"I know we have never spoken of it," he said.

"You should feel no shame," she said finally. "You were driven by instinct. I, on the other hand, took advantage of an innocent. That is not acceptable behavior for a civilized being."

"You saved my life," he reminded her. "And I have long regretted that you were forced to sacrifice your physical and personal privacy to do so."

She continued quietly, boldly, despite the occasional faltering of her voice. "It truly was no sacrifice, Spock. When you first brought me from Hellguard, I suspected that sexual gratification was what you wanted. I would have given it happily. Those feelings... have not changed."

Spock did not know if there was an etiquette in all the worlds of the Federation that prescribed a response to such a statement. No Vulcan, especially a bonded one, would ever think of telling another that he was welcome to such gratification. And she'd said she'd have given it "happily."

"I did not know that you viewed the matter in that light. If I caused you to believe that my intentions—"

"Spock," she interrupted gently. "I did not mean to say that I considered myself fit or appropriate to be your bondmate. I am simply aware of the fact that I owe you my very existence—at least my place among the people of the Federation."

He allowed himself to smile at her. "I would say that you discharged any such debt when you kept me alive on Genesis. Still, I suppose I was not completely unaware of your feelings. I attributed your distrust of Valeris to jealousy."

She shook her head. "I understood your attraction to Valeris. It was natural for you to want a mate who wasn't your adopted child, and Valeris was beautiful. Even Vulcans are not immune to sexual attraction."

"No," he admitted. "Or I might have listened to you then. I think perhaps, of all the suffering which resulted from Valeris's actions, I regret most that you were made to feel unwelcome aboard the _Enterprise_. That is selfish, I suppose. Many good people died, but I regret your emotional anguish."

"I am honored by your concern, selfish or not. Just as I will be honored by any place you accept in Preston's life. I understand that you would be unwilling to suddenly become a parent—"

This time he did reach out and brush an affectionate finger against her cheek. She did not flinch away. Through the brief touch of the minds, he felt her sadness, her anger, her relief at the words he spoke now. He wished he had not waited so long to reveal the truth to her. As it was, the touch was nearly overwhelming for them. They did not fall into an embrace, as humans might have, but, in their minds, the display of emotion was happening. It was enough.

"I had believed," he whispered, "that I became a parent twenty years ago. Perhaps you didn't notice because I was not an effective one."

She smiled back at him. "That is not true. Effectiveness is not evaluated by each failure, but by each accomplishment. Are your accomplishments so lacking in my case?"

"No," he said. "I would modestly admit that they are... more than adequate. You have grown into an excellent Starfleet officer, an exceptionally moral being, and a fine parent."

"I haven't had much chance to demonstrate my parenting yet," she said.

"You demonstrated all you needed to, Saavik. You fought for Preston's safety, for his survival. You let no obstacle block your path. And..." he hesitated for a long moment before admitting the true nature of his admiration for her. "And you demonstrated your love for him throughout. I could not have taught you to do that."

"I could not do otherwise. He is the first person who ever depended on me."

"You could have done otherwise," Spock said slowly, "You could have done what I did. I kept myself from acknowledging any feelings for Preston. I would not let myself love him, for logic told me he would probably die. I am not incapable of love, but... I do not know if I am capable of loving a child and losing him."

"You seem to have made a decision now," said Saavik.

He nodded. "When Fournier triggered the photon torpedo, tried to kill all of us in a deliberate attempt to wipe out Preston, I realized the depth of my feelings. Faced with losing my only child and knowing that there was any chance I might save him, I could no longer deny my own emotional investment in Preston's survival." He stopped, then added, "I suppose you found my display... surprising, and shameful."

She surprised him by laughing, very quietly. It was something she hadn't done in his presence in many, many years, and he'd always corrected her. "You would have made a fine Romulan, I think. I was surprised... and very proud."

"Proud?"

She nodded. "Proud that you wanted so to protect our son, that even Vulcan restraint was of secondary importance. You do love Preston, don't you, Spock?"

"Yes," he said softly; and it felt good to say so.

She looked quickly down the corridor, in the direction Terry Metcalfe and Preston had gone. "I must make preparations to leave," she said. "Thank you... for everything."

"You are most welcome," he said, and she moved quickly down the corridor.

He watched after her and continued to do so a long time after she'd disappeared from sight. Then, he whispered to the air before him, "And I love you, Saavik."

He wondered what had made him wait until she was gone to say it .


	28. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCoy turned to Spock and gaped. "I'll be damned."
> 
> "I would not be surprised."

Chapter Twenty-Five

"Live long and prosper, Father," Preston said. He tried to hold his hand in the traditional Vulcan salute, but only two of the fingers would stay aligned. He looked at his hand in frustration. Spock gently took the boy's hand in his own, spread Preston's four fingers with two of his own, and guided his wrist back into place for a proper salute. Preston smiled, not the thin smile of a Vulcan child, acceptable among family, but the genuine, happy smile of a human. Spock wondered if the boy would someday study the disciplines of his father's people. Given the current situation, it was questionable whether he would ever return to Vulcan at all. Well, logic dictated that it was better to be alive than not, even if expert education was not available.

He returned the salute. "Peace and long life, Preston Kirk Marcus. May your journey be a fruitful one."

Behind Spock, McCoy harrumphed loudly. "If the damned salute doesn't break his hand."

Preston giggled. "It doesn't hurt, Doctor."

"Wait till you have arthritis, boy."

Saavik took Preston by the shoulder and guided him toward the transporter pad. "It is time to go," she said. She turned to Spock and began to give the Vulcan salute. He reached out with two fingers and touched them to hers instead. It was a gesture of affection between parent and child. She held her fingers against his for a long moment, letting their feelings intermingle. It was all the goodbye they needed.

Metcalfe, Chekov and Uhura also said their goodbyes to Spock and McCoy. The Doctor's eyes were moist as he embraced Uhura, and even Spock accepted a hug from her, although he saluted Chekov and Metcalfe in Vulcan fashion.

When the five of them had faded from view on the transporter platform, Spock turned to McCoy, who looked wistfully at the empty air.

"Brave young people," McCoy muttered, "going off to an uncertain future like that."

Spock nodded. It was an emotional, but accurate, assessment. "Indeed. While not my first choice for a developmental environment for my son, it will be challenging and enriching, I think."

McCoy turned to Spock and gaped. "I'll be damned."

"I would not be surprised."

"'Your son!'" the Doctor grinned. "It's about time."

"He was always my son."

"Maybe, but you were awfully slow to admit it!"

"Really Doctor, your preoccupation with emotional detail—"

McCoy held up a finger, shaking it vigorously in Spock's face. "Don't even try it, my Vulcan friend! I've got you this time! You can't say your actions were dictated entirely by logic." He smirked triumphantly. "Welcome to the human race."

Spock said simply, "Thank you, Doctor."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Not quite. Are you familiar with the hospitality facilities aboard this ship? Does it not have a bar?"

Puzzled, McCoy replied, "I believe it does, why—?"

"Then let us proceed there. After thirty years of careful observation, I have developed a firm hypothesis."

"And what is that?"

"You are far more pleasant after you've... tossed back a few."

Once again, McCoy's mouth fell open, and he snorted with surprised laughter. "I—! Well—I'll be damned!"

"You are becoming repetitive. Shall we go?"

He gestured towards the door. "Lead on, Mr. Spock. This may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Terry Metcalfe stepped off the transporter pad, saying to Chekov, "I think we should head for Orion. I have some contacts—"

He stopped as he took a second look at his first officer. Aer'La wore, instead of her Starfleet uniform, a black jacket of some rough-hewn material, over a gray silk blouse and uniform pants. At her waist, tied, with a long piece draped down over one thigh, was a turquoise sash. The breast of her jacket held a gleaming emblem, apparently fashioned of gold, in the shape of a _Phoenix_.

"What the hell is that?" demanded Metcalfe.

She smiled and turned, modelling the outfit. "You like it?"

Metcalfe eyed her appreciatively. "Well, it makes you look a bit less like a Christmas elf—"

Aer'La frowned. She did not know of the traditional human association of red and green—the colors of her uniform and her skin—with an ancient holiday. "A what?" she asked.

Saavik came to stand by her husband, and looked sideways at him, then at Aer'La. "I find it does no good to keep asking them for explanations. Humans persist in making obscure references. I believe they enjoy confusing the rest of the galaxy."

"I feel like I just stumbled into an intergalactic girl's night out," said Metcalfe.

Aer'La raised an annoyed eyebrow. "I'll ignore that."

Once Metcalfe had introduced the newcomers to her, Aer'La said, "I hope you don't mind my taking the liberty of designing the uniforms."

"Not at all," Metcalfe responded patiently, wondering why she seemed to be enjoying herself so. "Uniforms for what?"

Uhura, beside him, nodded thoughtfully. "I get it. For the Merry Men?"

"The who?" asked Metcalfe.

"Our daring rebel band," explained Aer'La.

Metcalfe turned to Uhura. "Have I missed something?"

"Quite a bit," said Uhura. "We didn't sit on our hands while you were in the Nexus." She looked to Aer'La. "Apparently, no one did."

Chekov added, "We thought that, since you're leaving Starfleet anyway, you might be interested in joining a team of... troubleshooters."

Metcalfe jabbed a thumb at Aer'La. "She looks more like a pirate."

"I've no doubt we'll be called that," said Uhura. "But we had in mind righting a few of those wrongs that Starfleet has fallen behind in preventing."

"You mean like Federation children being kidnapped and sold into slavery by Federation-appointed governors?" asked Metcalfe.

"That would definitely qualify," said Uhura. "Are you interested in discussing it?"

Metcalfe looked hopelessly at Saavik, who remained silent. He could tell, however, that Uhura and Chekov's suggestion intrigued her. It did him as well, but he wasn't ready to leap into anything just yet. He turned again to his First Officer. "Are you in on this, too?"

"She wasn't," said Chekov.

"I knew you'd be needing a ship. I knew for certain you wouldn't go stand trial in some wombat court—"

"Kangaroo," he corrected her. "The expression is 'kangaroo court.' But—"

"So, here's a ship," Aer'La finished.

"To do what with? To go where?"

She shrugged. "Wherever you like... Captain."

"We can't take this ship! It's—"

"—on the decommission list," said Chekov thoughtfully, looking appraisingly about.

"Destined for target practice," agreed Uhura.

Metcalfe sighed. They were trying to railroad him into some kind of fool's adventure. All he wanted to do was take Saavik and Preston and slip into hiding until things quieted down.

"We can't all hide from Starfleet," he protested.

"We can outrun them," said Chekov. "It's a big galaxy, and the Federation doesn't control all of it."

"What about supplies? Medicine? Repairs? We won't have any place to—"

"Didn't you say you had contacts on Orion?" prodded Uhura. "I doubt they'll care where we got our ship or how."

Metcalfe threw up his hands. "You're talking about stealing a starship, people!"

Chekov winked. "After the first one, you'll find the thrill wears off."

Metcalfe had to admit the idea was attractive. With a little luck, they could evade Federation authorities. Orion space, while dangerous, was free. Given the new political situation, they might have access to the Klingon Empire, in time. He and Saavik were already subject to enough charges to send them to a rehab colony. What was one charge of theft?

He turned to Aer'La in a final attempt. "What about the crew? Is the whole crew ready to head for Pitcairn Island?"

"No," she admitted, "but I've tapped those that are; and I have a thought about the rest..."

Sulu had sent Starfleet a full report—as full as would not be incriminating—on the return of the _Pandora_ crew from the Nexus. Spock would, if necessary, subject both Sulu and McCoy to a mind-meld implanted hypnotic suggestion, removing their conscious knowledge of anyone but Saavik and Metcalfe's involvement in the plot. They would pass a truth scan. He had sent Morrow a copy of his report as well, since it involved one of his senior staff. Sulu knew it wouldn't be long before he heard something back.

Sure enough, within an hour, Harry Morrow's face was on the main viewer. He looked haggard. When he spoke, his voice lacked its usual inflection. "Captain Sulu."

"Admiral, we're continuing our search for Commodore Fournier's shuttle. Still no—"

"You can call off the search, Captain," said Morrow grimly. "Commodore Fournier was returned to Starfleet Headquarters. Or rather, his remains were returned."

Sulu felt sick. "Sir?"

"Someone sent George Fournier back from inside your temporal anomaly, Captain... after they'd nearly beaten the life out of him. He's dead."

Sulu shook his head. "That's not possible..."

"Would you like to see the body?" Morrow demanded angrily.

"That isn't necessary, sir."

The lift doors opened, and Spock and McCoy came onto the bridge. They saw Morrow on the screen and remained silent. Sulu heard Janice telling them what had happened.

Spock came forward. "Admiral Morrow, I have been apprised of the situation. Are you certain there is no possibility of error?"

"I assure you we identified the body, Ambassador. And I intend to have you brought in for questioning."

Spock nodded calmly. "That is only logical. I assure you, however, that Commodore Fournier was alive when last I saw him. I will voluntarily submit to a truth scan, as will Dr. McCoy."

"And Saavik and Metcalfe?" asked Morrow.

"They said nothing about Fournier," Sulu replied. His report had included their admission of guilt in stealing the _Pandora_ and kidnapping McCoy, Spock, Chekov and Uhura.

"Why would they, if they could get away with it?" asked Morrow.

"Sir, I don't think—"

"Captain, your two pet officers are prime suspects in the murder of a flag rank officer. I don't care what you think. You will bring them at once—"

"They're in custody aboard _Phoenix_ , sir. Commander Chekov is bringing them to you."

"I don't think that's wise," said Morrow. "I'm not sure I can trust any of Kirk's crew just now, but at least _Excelsior_ has more secure holding facilities. Get them aboard your ship, Sulu, and—"

"Hikaru!" Janice Rand suddenly barked. " _Phoenix_ has gone to red alert. She's ejected three life pods."

Morrow's face came alive with rage. "What the hell? Sulu, get that ship secured!"

Sulu ignored him and spun to Tuvok. "Report!"

"Life pods contain seventeen distinct life readings, sir. Sixteen persons remain on _Phoenix_."

"Arm forward phasers," Sulu ordered his weapons officer. "Stand by to go to warp," he said to the helm. "Commander Rand, raise _Phoenix_."

"Sulu!" Morrow's image shouted, "What the hell—"

"Cut him off!" Sulu hissed to Rand. The Admiral's image winked out, replaced by a shot of _Phoenix_ 's bridge. Terry Metcalfe was in the center seat. He was out of uniform, wearing a black outfit of some kind, as was his crew. The hackles raised on Sulu's neck. This was the moment of truth—or untruth, as the case might be. He had to make this look good for his crew, and Starfleet.

"Mister Metcalfe," he said coldly. "What are you doing in that seat?"

Metcalfe smiled predatorially. "It's Captain Metcalfe, Hikaru. Had you forgotten?"

"Where's Commander Chekov?"

"He's safe," Metcalfe said. "As are all of those in the life pods I've ejected. They chose to remain with Starfleet. My crew and I have other plans."

Sulu took a breath. It was time to inject some genuine feeling into the performance. Starfleet would expect it. "Terry," he said quietly, as if trying to avoid being picked up by the recorders, "don't be a fool. Get Chekov back on the bridge. You can't escape Starfleet."

"Chekov can't take the bridge. He's in engineering, making sure we can escape you."

"Terry—"

"Save it, Hikaru. This ship no longer recognizes Starfleet authority. We're leaving Federation space, and you won't be able to touch us."

"If I have to," Sulu said, putting the hardest edge he could on his voice, "I'll blast you out of space. Don't make me—"

Metcalfe smiled. "I wouldn't put you in such an uncomfortable position, old friend. Try your weapons. You'll find them inoperative. Your warp drive as well."

"What did you do?" Sulu demanded. This really was a surprise. Had Terry sabotaged his ship? He'd had a few minutes by himself...

"Don't worry," Metcalfe assured him. "It isn't anything permanent. I'll even transmit a repair procedure. But it'll take you hours to get back online, and we'll be long gone."

Rand was at the weapons console, checking out the systems. She looked to Sulu and shook her head. Metcalfe was telling the truth. They were helpless to stop him. Thank all the gods, Sulu thought, that Terry had anticipated Morrow forcing their hands.

"Terry," he said to the screen. "Please don't do this."

"Good bye, Hikaru," the other man said, with genuine feeling. "Take care of yourself."

The screen went black. Tuvok reported _Phoenix_ warping away. They were gone.

"Janice," Sulu said quietly, "beam aboard the _Phoenix_ crew and retrieve the life pods. I'm going to my cabin for a few minutes."

He stood, hoping he wasn't overdoing his performance as the broken-spirited man who'd been betrayed by his friend. He wanted to shout with joy and exhilaration. This experience had been the most fun he'd had in ten years, but no one must know that.

He invited Spock and McCoy to join him in his cabin. They had much to talk about, after all. There would surely be an inquiry about their involvement in all of this. He wasn't worried. There was no evidence against them, and Spock could finesse his way out of almost any situation. He was quite a slippery character, for a Vulcan. Sulu supposed it all came of keeping bad company.

Saavik looked up from her helm console as she eased _Phoenix_ back from maximum warp. "On course," she reported. "Proceeding toward Orion free space at warp five."

"Signs of vessels in pursuit?" Metcalfe asked.

Uhura looked up from the science officer's station. "We would seem to be all alone."

Preston reached out and tapped a finger at one of the blinking lights on Saavik's console. She gently but firmly pulled his hand away. He gave a plaintive look. "Can I drive the ship?"

She smiled. "You are too young."

"But I know how!" he pressed. "It's all in here." He pointed to her head, then his own.

"You absorbed my knowledge of ship's systems through the bond?"

He nodded proudly.

"He's got you, Saavik," Uhura chuckled.

"Please?" whined Preston.

"Preston," Saavik said patiently, "you must understand the development of the juvenile neuromuscular system. It takes a span of years exceeding your own to develop the necessary coordination—"

Preston bounced up and down impatiently. "I wanna do it now!"

"But—" Saavik began.

"Preston," Metcalfe interrupted, "if you're busy driving the ship you won't be able to help me in the engine room. We've got to readjust the matter/anti-matter mix, and I need someone small enough to fit into the jeffries tube with me and keep an eye on the intermix chamber." He whispered conspiratorially, "You get to watch things explode."

The boy's face brightened. "Let's go!"

Metcalfe winked. "In a second. Watch the viewscreen for a minute, and see if you spot any ships chasing us, okay?"

"Okay," the boy said agreeably, and ran to stand in front of the helm console, where he peered intently at the screen.

Saavik exhaled softly. "I am not a satisfactory parent."

The lift doors opened as she said it, and Celia Faulkner came onto the bridge. "Me either, kid," Faulkner said. "Ask any of my six children."

"Doc!" Metcalfe exclaimed. "You stayed!"

The older woman smiled and tousled the captain's hair. "Damn straight. You know what a retirement colony costs? I can't afford to be anything but a sawbones on a pirate ship. Who's the supply officer? I need leeches."

Metcalfe look around the bridge. "I dunno what the division of labor is, but I think I'm in someone else's chair." He started to get up, looking carefully at Uhura and Chekov.

Chekov, who'd been standing at the railing by his side, moved quickly away, toward the empty seat at navigation. "Don't look at me," he said warily, "my seat is still vacant." He slid in behind the console and began fussing over the board. "English!" he growled as he saw the readouts, "what the hell is this? Don't they know that the Russians invented astral navigation?"

Uhura looked pointedly at Metcalfe, who was gesturing for her to take the center seat. "Now, if I sit there, who'll watch sciences and communications? I'm overworked as it is!" she said indignantly.

"It would seem all the available personnel are needed in other positions," Faulkner observed. She grinned at Metcalfe. "The only seat left for you is the one that calls for no special skills whatsoever."

"I was a pretty fair helmsman once," Terry objected.

"Once," agreed Faulkner. "Now you're all washed up and no good to anyone, so you might as well be Captain."

Chekov leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I think you may as well accept your fate, Terry. I don't like much of what Starfleet's done lately, but I think they made one good decision in giving you command of this ship, and a number of your crew seem to agree. Uhura and I would be crazy to try and take your place in their midst."

Metcalfe looked around him. "Who is still aboard, anyway? We were so busy running from Hikaru, I haven't noticed who's still with us."

The lift door opened again, and Faulkner gestured toward the new arrivals. "Well, here are three suspicious characters we couldn't offload." Metcalfe turned. Aer'La, Sernak and Kevin Carson stood at the bridge entrance. All wore Aer'La's redesigned uniform. Metcalfe rose and moved to face his old friends.

"I guess I'm not surprised you'd stay," he said to Aer'La.

"I never cared much for Starfleet," she said, "but they were pretty much the only game in town... till now."

"Sernak? Is piracy a logical course of action?"

Unfazed, Sernak explained, "Ambassador Spock intends to establish contact with the Romulan Empire, for diplomatic purposes. He will hardly be afforded Starfleet aid. If one accepts the logic of Spock's intention to reunite the Romulan and Vulcan peoples, then logic dictates that he will need agents in a position to assist him."

"So you're the Vulcan underground?"

Sernak inclined his head in a very understated nod. "Besides, Captain, your need for my engineering services is far more urgent than Starfleet's."

Finally, Metcalfe stepped under the sarcastic eye of Kevin Carson. In black suede, with his flame-colored pony tail draped over one shoulder, and a single, sterling earring hanging from one lobe, he looked the very picture of the rogue warrior. He caught Metcalfe's gaze and held it. He had to know Metcalfe was surprised to see him here, as antagonistic as he'd always been about his friend's habit of tilting at windmills.

"You sure you want to do this?" Metcalfe asked. "It's just another of my impractical whims."

Kevin grinned crookedly, the only way he knew how to smile. "So was joining Starfleet, and I let you talk me into that. One of these days, Metcalfe, you're going to stumble into greatness despite that pole up your ass. I want to be there to make sure you don't completely bolix up your opportunity."

Metcalfe fixed him with an angry glare, then couldn't help but laugh. Some things never changed, and Kevin Carson was surely one of those things. "Is that any way to talk to your captain?" he demanded.

"Report me," Carson shot back.

"I may reinstitute flogging," Metcalfe muttered. He returned to his chair, propped one foot up on its seat, and leaned forward against his knee. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the suddenly independent vessel _Phoenix_. Commander Chekov has suggested we set up a little band of mercenaries—"

"Troubleshooters," corrected Chekov.

"Troubleshooters," amended Metcalfe, "to clean up our little corner of the universe. So, if you're all quite sure you don't want to be dropped off somewhere..." He stopped, waiting to see if there was any response. There was none.

"Well then," he said, "I'd say we've got work to do. Mr. Chekov, set course for the planet Den. I've got some unfinished business there."

"Plotted, laid in, Captain," said Chekov.

"Full speed ahead." He settled once again into the captain's chair of his first command. Suddenly, it felt quite a bit more comfortable than it had only days before. Could it have been only days? It seemed like a lifetime, so much had changed. He wondered idly what the next days would bring to a fugitive captain and his renegade crew.

He noticed Saavik watching him. She spoke to him over their bond.

//Something troubles you. Do you regret sacrificing your career for my son and me?//

//I have no regrets involving you, Saavik, save that it took me so long to find you again.//

//Then why do I sense such unease?//

//Because I never meant to lead so many people into such... uncertainty. What if I make the wrong decisions for all of us?//

//It is their decision to trust you. I believe it is a correct one.//

//I just can't believe they're all so ready to turn their backs on Starfleet.//

//I believe you misinterpret their motives, my husband.//

//Huh?//

//These people have not decided to turn their backs on Starfleet. That was merely a byproduct of a more important choice.//

//Which is?//

//I believe they have decided that, whatever happens, they cannot turn their backs upon their Captain.//


End file.
